The Blind Rooster's Crow
by Bone Dry
Summary: AU. Continuation of "Altered Realites." A dead man with connections to Brennan's past turns up in the Jeffersonian, and she decides to investigate. B/B, A/H. Series discontinued.
1. Glass Dolphins

_This is a continuation of the plot-line that was started in _Altered Realities_, which was cut short so that I could write the sequel with enough leftover to pursue them in length. In order to know what is going on, you're going to need to read the first one._

_Anywhoo, expect long chapters because I am going to attempt to write this way. Updates I am not sure about because the plot is still being developed, but I will try to keep it regular._

_As usual, if you read, please comment. I am not overly familiar with this whole "fluff" thing, nor am I too skilled at the interpersonal stuff—especially the fluff. If you have any suggestions, by all means, leave them. I cannot guarantee that I will listen, but if it fits in I will certainly be inclined to do so._

_The name of this story may only make sense to me, but if it does actually make sense, then that will become apparent later._

_Also, writing/editing _The Woman in the Woods _at the same time, so...yeah. That'll be delt with for a while in addition to this._

_Enjoy!_

_The Blind Rooster's Crow_

_-Chapter One-_

It was snowing in the District of Columbia. On the other side of the country, the northern foothills of California were also experiencing a snow dump. The states between were mostly cold or dry, some getting the same weather as DC and some being baked by a tenacious winter sun. But that was where the similarities ended.

Temperance Brennan lugged the last of her boxes inside her new apartment in downtown DC and sighed, falling back heavily against the wall as she inhaled deeply and closed her eyes. So much had changed in so little time, and yet somehow it also felt like it had always been. After all, she had lived out of a small hotel room for several months in DC before and she was more than familiar with the local thieving rings, but to be living here permanently—it was a strange concept to her.

She was used to big cities. Growing up in Chicago, one had to get used to it. And the hustle and bustle of everyday living here was not much different then it had been in California. No, what was off was the context of her situation. Instead of being here for a deal, she was doing something very similar to settling. She had taken all of her belongings, packed them up, and shipped them across country and now here she was in an island of boxes inside an empty apartment.

Setting her jaw in a determined line, Brennan pushed off the wall and hunted through the chaos on her new floors until she found the box labeled "blankets." She pulled out her pocket knife and quickly cut through the tape, then reached inside and pulled out a bed-set and a soft throw blanket. Leaping over a few of the boxes in her way, she headed to the bedroom and sent a silent thank-you to the men who had set up the bed and furniture before taking off. For all she was independent, this would not have been a task she would have dealt with tonight, and likely would have ended up sleeping on the floor, a prospect that did not appeal to her or her back.

With a movement decidedly lacking in grace, she dumped the linens onto the mattress and plopped down beside them. Immediately, she was met with the glare of death from two large green orbs.

"Don't give me that look, Faye," Brennan muttered, slinging an arm over her forehead, "You try moving that many boxes in a single day."

The calico cat said nothing, choosing instead to roll back into a ball, looking slightly miffed.

"You know you're just going to have to move eventually."

Once again, Faye provided no insights.

"Though honestly, you're adjusting as if we've always been here."

Her tail flicked.

With a sigh, Brennan fell back into the mattress, thinking that the cat had the right idea. Though after living with Faye for over eight years, that wasn't very surprising. She had learned over the span of time that the cat was always right, and it didn't particularly matter what one said or did because this sentiment held true for all occasions. But Brennan still maintained that the gelatinous blobs that Faye consumed so readily were hardly edible. It was their one point of disagreement.

However, as of this moment, curling into a ball and sleeping the night away sounded like a terrific plan. And likely if she didn't get up right now, it would happen whether she wanted it to or not.

With a groan, she extracted herself from the mattress and picked up Faye. The cat was once again giving her a death glower, but Brennan ignored it, instead setting her on top of a nearby box. Turning, she quickly set to work with the bed linens, only having to remove the cat from the sheets twice in the process. When it was finished, she walked out of the room with great reluctance, deciding to squeeze a little more productivity out of her tired body rather than indulge in sleep, for she would have plenty of time for that later.

Haphazardly strewn between new couches and one old chair were the boxes that held everything she had owned and considered worth keeping. Her living supplies and her memories all packed up into such a small space. It was jarring.

For sentimentality's sake, she wanted to unpack her glass dolphin collection first. For practicality's sake, she wanted to unpack her kitchen supplies. After a moment of debate, she opened up the latter box, promising herself that tomorrow she would run out to the store and pick up groceries, a task that would inevitably be put off.

She was slipping the last of her pans into their new cabinet when there was a knock on the door. Her head shot up and she froze, wondering who knew she was here. A glance at Faye provided no clues, for the cat was staring in much the same manner. After a few beats, the knock was repeated and then a familiar voice drifted through, "Bones?"

Brennan exhaled and shook her head, stalking over to the door with mock irritation. She undid the locks and opened it, raising her eyebrows at the FBI agent who stood there with a few plastic bags at his feet. "What is it, Booth?" she asked.

"Aw, Bones, is that any way to greet me?" he said with a grin.

"I'm not sure yet."

"Always so direct. You're gonna break my heart one of these days."

She smiled, "Somehow I doubt that."

Special Agent Seeley Booth was wearing a collared red shirt that looked incredibly good on him, a large black trench coat and silver scarf completing the ensemble. His hands were in his pockets, and his shoulders were relaxed and loose, as was the smile on his face.

"Think I could come in?" he asked, "It's a little chilly out here."

"Of course," she grinned back at him, opening the door wide, "It's a little chaotic, but—"

"With you, Bones," he leaned forward and kissed her softly, "I never would've expected otherwise."

Her hands slid to her hips, "Is that so?"

"Yes. That is why I brought groceries." He gestured down at the plastic bags, his eyes dancing.

"Who's to say I didn't already go shopping?"

"We both know you didn't."

As one, they reached down and picked up the bags, proceeding to then set them on the kitchen counter.

"You're right," she said, "I didn't."

"As I suspected."

"Your famous intuition?"

"You got it," his eyes twinkled.

She smiled and shook her head.

Booth looked around, "Nice place by the way, Bones."

"It's in shambles," she replied, yanking open the door to her brand-new refrigerator.

"Still, you've got good taste."

"I feel so validated," she said dryly.

"You could've just said 'thanks' like a normal person."

She glanced at him, "Well, who ever said I was a normal person?"

He laughed, "Touché."

Brennan smiled at him before returning to unpacking.

"So is this stay permanent, Bones?"

She glanced back at him again, "Yes. I think so."

"Is it a business venture?"

She paused and turned, "What do you mean?"

He stepped closer to her, "You know what I mean."

"Oh..." her voice trailed off as she realized, "No. I—I think it may be over."

"Now I don't know what you mean."

She scuffed her foot and glanced down, biting her lip, "The thievery. I'm thinking about turning respectable, at least to a certain degree."

His eyebrows shot up, "Why?"

"I had a narrow window to get out. An opportunity to escape. It'll be with me for the rest of my life, but at least I no longer have to be apart of it."

"What are you going to do instead?"

"Well," she looked up and met his eyes, "I have had a PI license for several years now."

"What?"

"I obtained one a while ago as a cover and our little stint together reminded me that I liked investigative work."

"You as a private investigator?"

"On contract. And you wouldn't believe how many people in the syndicates around here want information."

"Ugh," he rubbed his face with his hands, "I thought you said you were getting out of it."

"I am. No more stealing."

"Bones, working for people who do things that are potentially worse is not exactly a step up."

"But _I_ am no longer doing anything illegal. Unless specially contracted, of course."

"Why would you be specially contracted?"

Her hands slid back to her hips, "Well, I am a pretty good thief, if I do say so myself."

He rolled his eyes.

"Besides, most of my own jobs were contracts. I just made money off the side."

"Bones," he held a finger to her lips, "I don't want to hear anymore."

It was her turn to perform an orbital roll before returning to unpacking.

"Do you want any help?" he surprised her by offering.

She paused, "No. I don't think so."

"So you're just going to unpack all of this stuff on your own?"

"Well, I'm used to it, Booth. I'm usually alone."

"But I'm offering to help."

Once again, she turned back to him, "Why?"

"Why?" he repeated with an incredulous blink, "Hasn't anyone ever offered to help you, Bones?"

"Well, not really. It's just been me and Faye for a long time."

"That's sad, Bones."

"Why?"

He sighed, "I'm not even going to answer that."

"Why not?"

"Because it's ridiculous. No one should be alone."

"I'm not alone. I have Faye."

"You know what I mean, Bones."

She did, but they'd been through this before.

"But you know what? I'm gonna help you. Just tell me where to start."

"Isn't it pretty late?"

"Well, you obviously didn't think so." He gestured at the three-quarter empty box near the cupboard.

"But that was for me, not for you."

"Hey, if it works for you, it works for me."

She placed the last of her new groceries inside the fridge and shut the door, "That is not a philosophy I'm familiar with."

"Then get familiar with it," he grabbed her and twirled her around in a mock dance move.

She smiled and shook her head, "You're lucky I'm so adaptive."

"I am?"

It was her turn to give him a soft kiss, "Yes."

"Ugh, you'll be the death of me one day."

"Eh," she said lightly, shrugging, "We'll all die eventually."

"Such a cheery outlook on life, Bones."

"You're the one who brought it up."

"And now I regret it."

"So let's change the subject."

"To what?"

"I don't know. That's sort of your skill."

"A PI who doesn't know how to start a conversation," he shook his head.

"And an FBI agent who doesn't know how to end one."

"Touché."

"You seem to be saying that a lot."

"Well, what can I say, Bones? You have a retort to my every word."

"That's not true."

He spun her around again, "Yes it is. But don't worry," he dipped her low, "It's part of your charm."

She regained her footing and placed hands on hips, "You know, if anyone else tried to do that I'd break their wrist."

"I'm flattered."

"But for you I'll make an exception."

"Really now?"

"Yes," she smiled evilly at him, "I'll break your head instead."

He provided a mock scowl, "If my heart doesn't break first."

"Such a pansy, Booth."

"Such a sweetheart, Bones."

"Is it my turn to say 'touché' now?"

"I believe so."

"Then touché."

"Life is always an adventure with Bones at the wheel."

Her forehead creased in confusion, "Why?"

He laughed, "One day you'll understand."

She cocked her head, "That's something one says to young children. I am an adult."

"And this conversation truly exemplifies that."

Another orbital roll, "It takes two to limbo, buddy."

"Tango, Bones. It takes two to tango."

"Oh."

He patted her arm, "So much to learn."

"If that's all I have to learn, then I think I'm in pretty good shape."

"I think most psychologists would disagree."

"Ugh," she scowled, "I hate psychology."

"I know."

"And yet you continue to bring it up."

"What can I say? You're cute when you're angry."

She punched his shoulder.

He grinned at her, "So what can I do to help, Bones?"

She pursed her lips, "You're insisting on helping?"

"Jeez, when you put it that way it sounds so demanding."

"Is that a yes?"

"Yes."

She smiled, "Then if you wouldn't mind, could you unpack the rest of the pans?"

He reciprocated the smile, "Of course."

"Thanks," she said after a moment of hesitation, walking over to the box with her glass dolphins.

"You're welcome, Bones," he flashed her another blinding smile before pulling out a pan and placing it in its new home.

Brennan nodded and carefully slit the box which held her private collection. It had been in existence for as long as she could remember, a dolphin being presented to her each year on special occasions by her mother. While traveling about the country, Brennan had extended it even further with the proverbial tarnished jewels she had found with local _honest_ vendors. It was one of the few things that had not been infected by her impulsive career choice, and she relished it immensely.

Grabbing one of the open sides, she dragged the box over to a built-in wooden shelf beside the kitchen and began to gingerly unwrap each dolphin and tuck them inside. Eventually she would stick in other things beside the dolphins—keepsakes from different times and mindsets. They were also carefully filed away, and she would be dammed if even the slightest tear or crack would develop on a single one.

Ten minutes later, the dolphins were safe and she was already starting to feel slightly more at home, despite the boxes still cluttering the space. Her breath caught in her throat when Booth came up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist.

"Those are beautiful, Bones," he said, staring at the crystalline sea mammals.

"Thanks," she replied.

He slowly turned her to face him, "You're sure about this?"

"About what?"

"Living here. Turning 'respectable.' "

Brennan looked at him for a while, "Yeah," she said finally, "I'm sure."

"Glad to hear it, Bones."

She tweaked his nose, "You would be."

-00000oooo00000-

Fridays at the Jeffersonian Institution's Medico-Legal Lab were generally quiet, most scientists there only to deal with last minute paperwork or catch up on projects that had been abandoned during the busier week. In winter, the number of walking lab coats dwindled even more as employees started to enjoy periods free from murder and mayhem. Some of the machines were closed down, their owners having hightailed it to a warmer climate and often any work that had to be done at this time was greatly hampered by the habitual migrations.

Because of this, Brennan was often allowed an open invitation to come in during slow days. The forensics team, as she had discovered, was comprised of four people without much of a life outside the lab. Camille Saroyan often spent her nights alone at her townhouse, occasionally planning days with friends, meals with her sister, or dates, the latter of which happened much more rarely then she cared to admit. A pathologist, she was also gifted in the ways of DNA, apparently having mastered the subtle nuances of genetics in an early stage of her career. Having taken a brief stint as a cop, she had decided that she preferred medicine to baddies and uncomfortable uniforms. And so she had traded the badge and gun for stainless steel table and scalpel and, by all appearances, had never looked back.

Zack Addy was the resident forensic anthropologist, having immediately replaced Michael Stires when he had obtained his doctorate. No one had liked Stires, for apparently by the end of a few months of working with him his charm wore out, leaving nothing but a shell of narcissism. Zack, for all he was oblivious to his own culture, cared about the work he did and was meticulous enough to rarely make mistakes. The fact that his intelligence was in the ionosphere may have also been a factor. However, he gained most of the lab's sympathy during any one of his failed relationships because he was often so sweet, unassuming, and literal that women didn't know what to make of him.

Jack Hodgins was an entomologist by trade. In fact, that was his first doctorate, his second and third being in particulates and dirt—though anyone that knew him would know to never say the word "dirt" around him for fear of being assaulted by a lecture on geology. Though quirky, paranoid, and witty, he was also a good scientist, and generally when he made a judgment, it was accepted as fact. By any standards, he was a genius—though perhaps not as idiot savant as his partner in crime, Zack Addy—and most people liked him both for his work and his personality.

Angela Montenegro was the resident forensic artist, the only one in the lab. If anyone wanted something restored or recreated, they went to her. A whiz with computers, she had also been the mastermind behind several unique and complex imaging programs, the most impressive of which being a large boxy affair that she had dubbed the "Angelator." Many an investigator had stared in awe at the holographic images as they flowed through the air with a sort of haunting grace, and it was extremely useful in working out logical scenarios from whatever evidence was provided.

She was also one of the most perceptive persons that Brennan had ever met. Just as her long-term date, Hodgins, could smell a conspiracy on a five year-old, Angela predicted relationships before they ever occurred, often times forecasting future events in couples' lives months or even years before they actually happened. She was also sensitive, and had a lot more trouble staying distant with cases then the rest of the scientists on the team.

Brennan had grown to know them all in a surprisingly brief amount of time, though she was closest to Angela. Having lived a life without any lasting friendships, she had been pleasantly surprised when she had finally gotten not one, but four, at the same time.

However, when questioning herself about her motivation for moving to DC, her subconscious went mysteriously quiet, giving Brennan the impression that it had been an impulsive decision. Though the more she thought about it, the more she didn't care. DC suited her, and a change of pace was often good. The fact that she still had connections in the city didn't hurt either.

Today, the lab was as slow as expected, but to Brennan's surprise the forensic team was up and gathered on the central platform, huddled around a table. Her first instinct was to turn and walk away, for remaining inconspicuous is one of the cornerstones of thievery, but she did not. After all, she had been present during investigative work, though most of it had more to do with entomology, particulates, or reconstructions. While working with Booth she had even been invited to an autopsy. It certainly didn't feel as if she would be escorted out in any case. And so she stayed, leaning against one of the empty workstations as she watched.

"What do we got, Zack?" Cam asked, an apron tied over her chest.

The anthropologist's face scrunched up as he picked up a pelvic wing, "Uh, the skull and pelvis shows markers consistent with a Caucasian male."

"Age?"

He nodded, "Thirties."

"You found cause of death yet?"

"This," he pointed to something that Brennan could not see, "Looks like a bullet hole; from the size and fracturing, an entrance wound."

"Yeah, that would be fatal."

"Usually; though I am familiar with a few medical cases in which the shooting victim—"

"Zack," Angela held up a hand, "Don't need to hear it."

"I was merely being exact."

"It's okay, sweetie," the artist patted his shoulder, "How long do you need the skull?"

"I believe you have time to perform a reconstruction."

"Oh, good. Then I can get started now." She smiled and picked up the sandbox in which the skull rested and clicked down the stairs to the ground level of the lab. She had gone about five steps before noticing that she was being was watched.

"Sweetie!" her usual endearment slipped from her lips as she rushed over to Brennan, "Oh, how are you? We haven't seen you in a while," she gave her a quick one-armed hug, the other hand still gripping the sandbox. "Zack and Hodgins were starting to get lonely."

"Why?" Brennan asked blankly.

She raised her eyebrows, "Oh, sweetie, they love you. Even Cam was asking."

"She was?" This was a foreign concept.

"Yes," the artist hooked her free hand around Brennan's arm and started to lead her up the stairs to the platform, "Jeez, you act like you've never had friends before." Before she had a chance to comment, Angela addressed the rest of the team, "Look who I found."

The three of them looked up from their various sources of interest with a look of confusion.

A smile broke out over Hodgins' face as he noticed her. "Brennan!"

"Brennan," Cam and Zack said together.

"Come to race beetles again?" the anthropologist asked.

"Jeff was missing you," Hodgins said.

Brennan cocked a brow, "I'm sure he did. I'm the only one to keep him company when he loses."

"Well, not everyone can be a winner."

"I'm sure that's why you pawned him off on me."

Cam smiled and shook her head, "Were you out on a contract or something?"

"No," Brennan shook her head, "I was moving."

"Ooh," Angela said, "Where to?"

"Here, actually."

"Really?" she suddenly looked excited, "That means we can make a run to all the stores and restaurants. Oh, sweetie, I know an Indian place around here that'll knock your socks off."

"I don't think that's physically possible," Zack piped up.

She rolled her eyes, "Figure of speech, Zack. Does Booth know about this?" she turned her attention back to Brennan.

"Yes. He came over last night."

"Ooh. Sounds juicy. You'll have to tell me more later."

"He was just helping me unpack."

"Uh-huh," she clucked her tongue, "I'm sure he was."

It was her turn to roll her eyes.

"Here on any business?" Cam asked.

"No," she shook her head, "I just wanted to visit."

She snorted, "I think you're one of the only people on the planet that would voluntarily come here to do that."

"Why?"

Cam paused as she made to walk down the stairs, "Usually there is only so much death any one of us can take before wanting out. And a medico-legal lab is a home-base for death." With that, she clicked away.

Angela watched her go, "I think she's ready for her vacation."

"Then why doesn't she just take one?" Brennan asked. "I know she has accumulated vacation time."

"Eh, she tries to leave but she just keeps coming back."

"I see."

"Yeah," she inhaled and paused, "Well, I should get started on this guy's face. Why don't we catch up while I do it?"

"Wouldn't I be distracting you?"

"She could hang out with us," Hodgins suggested with a winning smile, slinging an arm over Zack's shoulder.

"Girlfriends first and then she can race beetles."

"Well, we weren't going to do that immediately," he sounded a little hurt.

"You'll get to play soon," Angela steered Brennan down the stairs.

"And gather your money, boys," Brennan called over her shoulder in her best charm voice, "Because this time I'm going to win."

"That's improba—" Zack started to say, but Hodgins ribbed him hard, "I mean, okay."

They waved as the two women walked over to Angela's office.

"So when did this guy come in?" Brennan asked, gesturing at the skull.

"Yesterday; Cam did her usual flesh thing before sending it to Zack for his bone thing."

"Did one of them find the bullet?"

She shook her head, "No. I can never figure out why you care."

She shrugged, "I guess it's just the scientist in me. Is Booth involved in this?"

"Yeah; he's the one who brought it in."

She paused, "Am I asking too many questions?"

"Sweetie, you always ask questions. We're used to it by now."

"Good." She wanted to ask more, but decided that would be bad form. "So how have you been?"

It was the start to any long conversation with Angela. Invariably it would spiral off into some kind of segue after they had both agreed on being well. This time was no exception. By the end of it they had both somehow ended up on the subject of old pets, and both were recounting stories of scruffy puppies and scraggly dogs. An hour had passed and the sketch had long since been completed.

It was nice.

Their conversation was cut short by the arrival of Zack and Hodgins, the former of whom wanted the sketch, while the latter had the look of a lost puppy—much reminiscent of what Angela and Brennan had been discussing not five seconds before.

"Fine. Go," the artist had said upon a questioning look from Brennan.

She hopped up as Hodgins smiled, "I'll be back."

"Have..." she searched for a term, " 'Fun.' "

"Oh, believe me, we will," the entomologist said.

The three of them walked to Cam's office to drop off the sketch, for she would be the one to sift through the databases for a match. It always seemed to alternate between Zack, Angela, and Cam to do the facial ID, and it would seem that this time it was the pathologist's turn.

"Why do you guys enjoy having me around so much?" Brennan asked.

Cam answered for them, taking the sketch at the same time, "Because you're the only one who plays with them and their bugs."

"Hey," Hodgins said, "Jeff, Ollie, and Jack resent that."

"You named one of the beetles after yourself?" she asked.

"Eh, Zack named him."

"He did," Brennan affirmed.

She rolled her eyes. "Then I'll see you three later." They turned to walk out and she called, "But I want some work done today!"

Zack nodded while Hodgins gave another smile, "Uh-oh. Mommy's mad."

"I think she just wanted you to get some work done," Brennan said, "I can even keep you company if you wish."

"You live on the wild side, don't you?" he asked sarcastically.

"This is hardly exciting," Zack said.

"Doesn't mean it's not interesting," Brennan cut off another sarcastic reply.

"See? That's why we're glad you're around."

She smiled as they walked into the office that both scientists shared. As usual, there were bottles of formaldehyde and other chemicals spaced around the room, as well as various entomological collections. Centered in the room was a small light table with the usual drawn ring, and beside that was the beetles.

"Do we have our bets, gentlemen?" Brennan asked, for she had plenty of experience with gambling, though those she had been against bet a lot more for a lot less.

"Indeed we do," Hodgins said as all three simultaneously pulled out their wallets.

Money was thrown down, cups were raised, and beetles were run. As predicted, Brennan lost them all, her unfortunate beetle, Jeff, seemingly incapable of crossing the line first. After many rounds, they were stopped by an exhale from the doorway. Turning, they saw Booth standing there, leaning against the wall with an expression somewhere between amusement and disgust.

"Our tax dollars hard at work," he commented dryly.

"Yeah, and what's break time at the FBI? Book burning?"

"You like these people, Bones?" he directed the comment at Brennan.

"Yes, as a matter of fact," she replied.

Zack smiled shyly while Hodgins shot Booth a grin.

He exhaled again, "Angela's sketch got a hit."

"We have an ID?" Zack asked.

"Yeah," he opened a file, "John Evans, thirty-five. Investment banker for a local firm."

Something clicked in Brennan's mind, but she couldn't reach the thought.

"I need whatever you've got on time of death, Hodgins, and Zack, I need to know more about the bullet."

"We'll get right on it."

Brennan shrugged off the mental itch; whatever it was, it wasn't coming to her.

"Bones, you wanna get out of here for a while? Get some lunch?"

"Sure," she nodded and walked over to him.

"Bye," two scientists called as they walked out together.

"Bye," she replied.

"I still can't believe you actually enjoy racing beetles," Booth commented after a moment.

"And I still can't believe you like wearing those horrid socks." She saw Angela wave from her office and replicated the movement.

He snorted, "You're comparing socks to beetles?"

"Yes," she nodded.

"Bones, for someone who's seen so much contrasts in the world, you really are quite black-and-white."

"Well, I won't deny that."

He snaked an arm over her shoulders as they reached the outdoor botanical gardens, not a square inch of which had been cleared of snow. "But you're still saying the socks are like the beetles?"

"Mm-hm. If you can maintain that it's abnormal, then I can do the same for your socks."

"Then let's just call it a draw, eh?" They reached the bottom step.

"Let's."

His other arm slipped around her waist and he slowly spun her around.

"Booth," she put a palm on his chest, "This is probably not the best spot to be doing this."

"What?" he cocked a brow, "Afraid of getting caught?"

"No," she leaned forward and teased his lips with her own, "We're standing in the middle of a snow drift."

He pulled her in for another kiss, "Sounds pretty romantic."

She pushed back and delicately arched an eyebrow, "Midday in front of a forensics lab with six inches of snow? Buddy, you've got a lot to learn."

"I thought you thieves enjoyed improvising."

"Out of necessity, not pleasure," she turned and began walking again, giving him no choice but to follow, "And besides, I'm an _ex_-con."

"Of course you are."

"Yes," she grinned as he recovered his position on her left. "So where are we going for lunch?"

"Nolita's."

She shook her head, "The site of our first rendezvous?"

He smiled, "You got it."


	2. Thieves and Bones

_Note: I know on some level that these long chapters with multiple scenes can seem rather cumbersome to read, but I think it's the better option than having 2 or 3x more chapters. I'm sorry if it does become sort of drawn-out._

_Also, since we are getting into the plot now, I just want to say that I have no idea what I am talking about as far as facts are concerned. Expect inaccuracy because I do not know anything about how a thievery ring works—Just going off of my gut here. I apologize beforehand for any glaring errors or anthropological oversights that may be seen here, especially any having to do with geography because I have never actually been to DC._

_And, because I forgot to mention it in the first chapter, the character of Faye is dedicated to my own cat, Nala, who has been sleeping on one corner of the bed, usually ignoring me, for over eight years now. Too many more years to come. As the proverbial glass-raze and toast, read on. :)_

_-Chapter Two-_

Nolita's was typical of any stereotypical fancy Italian place that was not actually situated in Italy. It had plush red booths, a fireplace, and soft jazz music oozing from various speaker systems hidden throughout the restaurant—often times behind a fake plant. The food, however, was excellent and the prices did not leave one with a noticeable dent in her wallet. As an atmosphere, it was warm and cozy, and as a business, it was intelligent—making it a good place to eat either alone or with the company of another person. That had been Brennan's original rational behind choosing the place for her first "date" with Booth.

But now, sitting across from him in the low lighting as a fire crackled in the background, things were different. There were no lies or excuses. Though both of them had personal information that neither had any desire to know about the other, she was not just the vague "importer/exporter" and he was not the scary cop. Instead, she was the "ex" con and he was an FBI agent who didn't let his job, rightly or wrongly, interfere with her own.

Booth was dressed in his typical suit and tie, black on bright red, a black scarf tucked under it all. Two gloves were stuffed into his pocket, and somewhere in there was both a badge and a gun.

Brennan herself was wearing a deep violet blouse set off by a silver necklace and earrings, a black coat draped over her seat. Her gun was at home.

"Did you get anything more unpacked this morning?" he asked.

She fidgeted with the ring on her finger, an heirloom from her mother's side of the family, "Well, I had to retrieve Faye's scratching post. Apparently she can't go a day without it."

"I'm surprised she even uses it."

She grimaced, "Originally, she didn't."

"You got her to change?"

"Yes. Every time she went to the couch, I picked her up and put her on the post, no matter what I was doing."

"And it worked?"

"I explained to her very carefully that she couldn't use the couch to sharpen her claws."

"She listened?"

"That I'm still not sure about. But," she held up a finger, "Faye eventually came around to my point of view."

"Congratulations, Bones. I'm sure cat persons everywhere are cheering."

She forked a few leafs of salad, "I'm not sure they can hear me."

He rolled his eyes.

She grinned at him as he chewed a piece of chicken and swallowed.

"You know, Bones," he let his fork hover over the rest of his meat, "What, uh, ever happened to Hodgins' stolen property?"

Brennan paused, "How much of it?"

"Oh jeez, I forgot it wasn't just that statue."

"Well, no..." her voice trailed off as she started to recall the robbery, "There was that vase too. And a bunch of paintings. And this really neat antique sword that I—"

"Please," he held up a hand, "Do you know or not?"

"Yes. I do. At least, I'm pretty sure."

"Where?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"I'm curious."

"You're not planning on arresting anyone are you?" she looked at him suspiciously.

"No."

"Well, to tell the truth, my fence sold all of them except the statue."

"And what happened to the statue?"

Her voice lowered, "I...returned it."

"To your fence?"

"No." She left him to fill in the blank.

"To Hodgins?" he whistled, "How'd you pull that off?"

"Well, I wiped it down, wore gloves, and deposited it on his stoop while he was at work."

"Little risky, Bones, don't you think?"

"Not particularly. He wasn't home."

"Did he get it?"

"I would assume so. It's not as if I am going to ask."

"Okay, Bones. Wow. That was nice of you."

She shrugged, "He's a friend and it wouldn't sell anyway. No sense in me keeping it."

"No sense at all."

She swallowed the last of her pasta and pointed at his empty plate, "You're done or should we order some sort of dessert?"

He thought about it for a moment before replying, "How about a slice of pie?"

"You can have that," she flipped to the back of the menu, "I have my eye on that chocolate soufflé."

"Why do you hate pie so much, Bones?"

She shrugged, "I don't hate it, I just don't like my fruit baked. Chocolate and cream pies are pretty good. I don't know why you never order those."

"I prefer fruit pies."

"That can be our one area of disagreement then." She raised her hand and caught the attention of one of the waiters, "Who's footing the bill this time?"

"I am. Remember, this was to celebrate your move here."

"Right, right. Any plans after this?"

He smiled, "Anything you wanna do, Bones."

She grinned back, "Alright then."

--

"So are you sure I can be down here?" Brennan asked Angela as they walked down the stairs to bone storage, "I mean, I'm not exactly authorized."

"Yes, sweetie, because _I'm_ down here. It's a Friday night anyway. No one wants to be here. Hell, I don't want to be here," she gestured at her chest with a finger.

"Then why are you here?"

"Because my fiancée is," the artist leaned back against one of the lab stations, "And I am a nice person."

"You mean you have nothing else to do?" she guessed.

Angela sighed and sank into one of the chairs, "You got it."

"Mm-hm," she nodded and ran her hand along a few of the storage boxes in front of her before slowly pulling one out.

"So you volunteered to come here instead of spending the rest of the day with Booth?" her voice was incredulous.

"No," Brennan turned, her back hitting the shelving, "Originally we were going to head home but Charlie called, said he found something."

"I see." She gave a tired grin, though even in a weaker state it still looked slightly evil, "You two getting together later?"

"Yes," the final letter extended itself, hissing between her teeth as she gingerly set the box on one of the tables in front of her.

"Your place or his?"

"Mine. I have to feed Faye." She pulled out a femur.

"Excuses, excuses, honey. Isn't your place a wreck?"

"It's not _that_ bad." Another femur.

She scowled, "You just moved. It has to be a wreck."

"Well, I unpacked about five boxes." Skull.

"Out of how many?"

"A few," her voice was evasive as she gently placed the jaw near the skull, "Are you sure you're not going to get into trouble?"

"It's fine. Don't change the subject. Seriously, sweetie, I think you need to learn a lesson in romance. Don't you have any nice dresses?"

"I'm pretty sure I do," she set down both humerii, "Somewhere."

"That doesn't sound very promising."

"Well, it's not as if I ever had a need for one. Especially not in my career."

"Private investigators don't need to seduce anyone?" she breathed out a mock frustrated sigh, "All of those movies have misled me so."

Brennan froze, a tibia gripped between two fingers, berating herself for forgetting that Angela didn't know about the thievery, "No. I don't need to seduce anyone," she forced her hand to move again.

"I see. Nonetheless, sweetie, I think you and I may need to go shopping."

"That's unnecessary." She set down the last of the bones.

The artist studied her for a few long moments as she organized stray phalanges, "Okay. But if you do decide you want to go shopping, we'll go together."

Brennan nodded.

There was silence until Angela formulated her next question, "Why do you even want to be down here, anyway?"

She shrugged, "I like bones."

"I figured that much. Isn't there another reason?"

She shrugged again, her finger tracing the curve of the nasal bones, "Not really."

Angela leaned forward, her arms still resting on the seat back, "Then why didn't you just become a bone lady? Like Zack?"

"I'm not sure," a sigh escaped from her lips as she picked up the skull, "I've been asked before."

"By Booth?"

"Yeah," her fingers slid over the zygomatic process and down to the teeth.

"Why does he call you 'Bones,' anyway?"

"I have no idea." She slowly set down the skull, "He says it's an endearment."

"Do you believe that?"

"Yeah," she paused and looked up at her, "I do."

"What else do you believe?" the artist's chin was tucked into her arms.

"About what?" she stared at a small butterfly fracture on the fibula in her hand.

"About Booth."

"Why do you ask?"

"Sometimes it's good to discuss things. Helps to organize your thoughts."

"My thoughts are pretty organized," she absently sketched out the fracture on a paper that had originally been destined to become fodder for a shredder.

"And maybe that's the problem," the chin lifted from her arms, "You're holding things back. Maybe you should speak from your heart once and while."

"What prompted this discussion?" she put down the page and clipboard.

She raised her eyebrows, "The fact that you are spending a Friday night at a medico-legal lab you don't even work at instead of hanging with your man. Sweetie, I don't know about you, but that seems...unorthodox."

Brennan shrugged, "He had to work, I didn't. It's as simple as that."

"You wouldn't have been here anyway?"

She didn't think of a response in time.

"See?" Angela pointed a finger at her, "You know what the problem with you and the rest of these squints is?"

She didn't.

"You lack whimsy. Fun. It's a genuine handicap."

"What do you suggest?"

She paused, "Have fun, Brennan. Just do something for the hell of it."

"So you're saying I should act impulsively?"

Her fingers snapped, "Yes. If we spend our lives caught up in logic, joy can fly by us. Have some fun. Do something enjoyable. Because I can guarantee you," she waited until Brennan met her eyes again, "enjoyment is not something you're going to find in a pile of bones."

"Then where does one find it?"

"That," she pointed a pen at her, "Is the question, now isn't it?"

"Yeah," she looked back down at the bones, "It is."

--

Sleet was coming down in torrents by the time Brennan left the Jeffersonian and its bones for her apartment. Coat drenched by the time she stepped through the entrance, her first thought was on a cup of hot chocolate and a bath, and it didn't matter in which order they came about. She got as far as pulling milk from the fridge and turning on the stove before she was interrupted.

"Myow," Faye grumbled from her perch atop the counter.

Brennan's shoulders slumped, "What is it?"

"Myow."

"I'm going to need more information than that, Faye."

"Myow."

"Myow," Brennan repeated.

"Myow."

"Myow?"

"Myow."

This wasn't going anywhere. She was about to try another 'myow' when Faye leaped off the counter to settle gracefully by the milk jug.

"Oh!" she slapped her forehead, "Right. That crap in a can you love so much."

"Myow."

"Quite talkative today, Faye," she told the cat as she walked to the cabinet to pull out a can of food, "What's gotten into you?"

The top popped off the can, releasing a pungent smell that only pet people know too well. With a grimace, Brennan tapped its contents into a paper plate and groaned in disgust at the sucking sound it made as it slipped out.

When she set it down, Faye went happily to eat the processed pig, cow, and chicken parts, as well as whatever other horrors the cat food contained. Shaking her head, Brennan went back to her hot chocolate preparation, secure with the knowledge that it was definitely more appetizing than pet food.

She was just mixing in the chocolate when she was interrupted again, this time in the form of a knock on her door.

Brennan sighed and looked down at her cat, "Is it too much to ask to just have a hot drink?"

Faye flicked her tail, which Brennan interpreted as something along the lines of a shrug. After an orbital roll, the ex-thief poured her drink into a nearby mug and walked over to the door. Once opened, it revealed Booth laden, once again, with groceries.

"I'm starting to think that you think that I can't take care of myself," she told him, stepping aside to allow him entry.

He smiled and gave her a quick peck before lugging the bags in, "Yeah, well, you're new here and I should bring the food. Besides, I'm just nice that way."

"Indeed."

"And I, fair Bones, even retrieved some fresh vegetables and pasta for us tonight. I am making you mac and cheese."

"I wasn't aware that you enjoyed cooking," she said, taking a sip of her hot chocolate.

"Well, I don't really, but for you I will." Another Booth grin.

She raised a brow, "I can cook if you want. I wouldn't mind."

"Naw. It was my offer. Besides, you know, such strenuous activity should be reserved for manly men such as myself."

"Is that so?" her expression shifted to one of bemusement.

"Mm-hm," he grinned at her as he reached for a chopping block and a knife.

She shifted onto the bar stool near the counter, "Little cocky, aren't you?"

"It's all in the name, baby," he gestured at his belt buckle.

"You and your nicknames."

"Endearments, Bones," he placed a pan on the stove, "Gotta keep telling yourself that."

She shook her head, "I'll try."

He flashed her another smile before setting to work. Eventually, she took over the chopping portion of the prep while he cooked the pasta and transferred it to a dish as she took care of the cheese. With the macaroni and cheese in the oven, Brennan steamed the vegetables in a large pan while Booth took a load off opposite her.

"You're pretty good with those veggies," he commented as she tossed a few carrots over.

"Thanks," she speared a snap pea and took a bite. The shell was soft and hot, the seed pliable. She held the fork out, "Taste."

He did, "Good, Bones. Real good."

She smiled, "Amazing what garlic, salt, oil, and spices can do, isn't it?"

"Very," his grin suggested that he was thinking about more than the vegetables.

Turning off the stove, she lifted the pan and carefully poured the contents into a colander. The oven beeped as she forked a carrot, and Booth clambered off of his seat to take care of the pasta.

Conversation dwindled until the food was served and compliments were exchanged, only starting back up as Brennan reached for a second helping of the macaroni and cheese.

"You remember I said that Charlie had found something in Evan's house?" Booth asked.

Brennan dumped a large spoonful of the pasta onto her plate, "Vaguely. Charlie's your underling, right?"

"Technically. Though I recommend you never ever say that around the office, Bones."

"Well, I'll keep that in mind, though I doubt I'd ever see the inside of the Hoover building." She glanced up at him, her fork in the air, "Why?"

"Well, we found something unusual."

"Unusual like what?"

"Money."

Again, a synapse fired somewhere deep in her mind, but it was gone before she could make an interpretation. "How much?"

"A lot. And it's not just the average USA money either. I think there was moolah in there from other countries."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Bones, most normal guys only have cash from one country. Let alone more than two."

"Okay."

"And most normal people don't hide them under floorboards in their closets."

She chewed and swallowed a mouthful of carrots and mushrooms, "Again, why are you telling me this?"

"There's something dirty about this, Bones. It smells. I don't like it."

"What are you thinking?"

"I'm not sure," he got up and walked over to one of the bar stools, where his coat was hanging. Reaching in a pocket, he fished out a notepad and flipped through a few of the pages as he regained his seat opposite her. "But this guy, Paul Bishop, was on a sheet of paper in his desk."

Her subconscious itch intensified but remained just outside of her reach. Shaking her head, she replied, "I don't get the significance."

"He's got a record."

"For what?"

"Thievery. He's a fence."

She said nothing, her mental itch becoming more and more insistent.

"Do you know him?"

"I'm not sure."

It was his turn to remain silent.

"But I would still like to know why you're telling me this," she said as she got up, taking her plate with her.

He followed, "If we found something, would you be willing to do any investigative work?"

"What?" she placed both of their plates in the sink and turned on the water.

"You said you were a licensed PI."

"I am," her voice was cautious as she scrubbed off the dinnerware.

"I don't know for sure, but this guy, Evans, something reads off to me."

"You're an investigator. Why can't you investigate?"

"I will, Bones, but if this case goes in the direction I think it's going, I may need your...expertise."

"My expertise?" she repeated, abandoning the dishes and walking in the direction of her couch.

"Yeah. You know, you're good with these sort of people."

She settled onto the couch, tucking her feet beside her, "And what kind of people are you referring to?"

"Thieves. Fences."

"Booth, I told you, I can't turn in any of my former work partners. It's too risky."

"But you could talk to them?"

"I suppose so."

"Good. That's all I needed to know."

"So you're just going to remain evasive about what the point of that whole conversation was?"

"Until I know more, yes."

"Good to know."

He nodded.

Silence stretched between them, the only sound the steady pounding of rain from outside. After a moment, Brennan got up and opened a window.

"What are you doing, Bones?" Booth's voice called from the couch.

She turned, shrugging, "I like the sound of rain. Just glad it stopped snowing."

"Why?"

"Can't hear snow fall," she sat next to him.

"I see."

"Mm hm." Her jaw settled onto his shoulder as she yawned.

"Getting tired, Bones?" he asked teasingly.

"Think the rain and the food are making me sleepy," she replied.

"And here I thought it was me."

She knocked her head against his in response.

"You're pretty violent for someone who's supposedly retired."

"PI work isn't much cleaner than thievery."

"I think you hold onto that like a persona."

"Eh," she shrugged and closed her eyes.

His arm slithered around her waist, "See?" he said into her hair, "You don't even have an argument."

"No. Besides," she took his hand in her own, "I don't have the energy to bicker about it right now."

"I see."

Brennan felt her hair stir with his every exhale, his chest expanding and contracting with the rhythm of his breath, and felt herself slip away at the same time. She opened her mouth for one final question, "How long are you planning on staying?"

"As long as you want, Bones," he replied gently.

"That's good," she murmured.

If he replied, she was unconscious before he said it.

--

The difference between night and day in a semi-conscious state was fuzzy at best. The rain was still pounding the windows, the sky was still dark, and it was still slightly crisp in the apartment. In fact, had Brennan not glanced at her clock she would've assumed it was still pre-dawn. The bright red digits, however, told her it was almost eight in the morning.

With a slight groan, Brennan slipped a hand from under her blanket and rubbed her eyes, forcing both open. It took almost a full minute to register that she was in bed and not the couch and, furthermore, that she was still dressed. Her fingers slid to her neck, but her necklace was not there. Glancing around, she realized it was on the nightstand.

Leaning back into the pillow, she wondered why this was wrong. A blush worked its way into her cheeks as she recalled falling asleep on Booth's shoulder. 'Like a love-struck teenager,' she thought to herself, deciding it was time to sit up lest she fall back asleep.

This proved to be more difficult than she had originally surmised. For one thing, she really didn't feel like getting up yet. Saturday mornings were for sleeping in. It had been like that in the Keenan house for years. Not even a meteor shower could get either of her parents out of bed any earlier than nine on the weekends. Breaking this sort of tradition didn't feel right to her.

The second, and by far the most important, reason she could not get up was due to the mass of fur laying directly on top of both the sheets—which she was under—and her right arm, which she was fast losing contact with.

"Faye," Brennan said quietly, "Faye? I think it's time you got up."

From her view of approximately two centimeters of the cat's back, there was no response.

"Faye? Faye, I can't feel my arm."

The tight ball that was Faye seemed to only grow tighter.

"Faye?" she tapped the small patch of fur with the index finger of her free arm, "Could you at least move over a little?"

The fur didn't so much as twitch.

"Please?"

Nothing.

Brennan sighed and slung her free arm over her forehead, wondering how long she would be trapped here. Almost involuntarily, her eyes drifted shut. 'Just a few minutes,' she said to herself, 'It's not as if I can go anywhere anyway.'

Moments later, she opened her eyes again and jumped, sending Faye into a nearby pillow with a _phwump!_ Hands curled into a defensive posture, she attempted to regain control of both her heart-rate and her breathing.

"Don't ever do that to me again," she said to Faye, who was now licking a paw with a fair amount of disdain. Her eyes blinked shut, but the image of two giant cat orbs remained burned into her eyelids. They flew back open. "Cats," she muttered with disgust, rolling out of bed, "Ugh."

Faye followed her as she padded out.

"What do you want?" Brennan asked grouchily, yanking open a cabinet and feeling thankful that three combined grocery runs between her and Booth produced enough food for a fast breakfast.

She received a yawn in response.

"Why do I even bother asking?" her voice trailed off as she noticed that Booth had left the piece of paper from his notepad on the counter. Picking it up, she rolled the names around in her head as she poured cereal into a bowl and reached for the milk.

"Paul Bishop...Where do I know that name from, Faye?"

The cat provided no answers.

"John Evans. Paul Bishop. I know I..." she stopped, eyes widening, "Oh no."

Faye looked up, perhaps noticing the sudden change in voice inflection.

"I do know this guy."

--

There were always at least two sides to the thieving community. On one, there was a small, albeit shaky, grounds for ethics. Of course, Robin Hoods were myths. Thieves served themselves, not the general good. The bottom-line was what was important, but there were a portion of the community that believed that no matter how rich the eighty year-old in the nursery was, stealing from her would be downright evil. In those circles, black hearts were the property of thugs and murderers rather then themselves.

On the other side, black hearts abounded. If the sweet ninety year-old had fifty bucks on her person, it was only a matter of guts to go in and take it. These were the types of robbers that everyone feared, because violence was not only a capability, it was on their purview.

These two general groups sometimes formed an unholy alliance, one that neither side wanted to truly acknowledge but benefited from nonetheless. Suppliers crossed lines, fences kept to their turfs. As long as balance was held, chaos did not ensue.

Brennan was of the former group. She was skilled, fast, and decisive. If a job needed to be done, she'd be hired for it. She had done her own share of freelancing, but for the most part her jobs were contracts. Moolah for goods. It worked. No one complained. If she made a little money off the side, people looked the other way. Her preference was the thieves within her own ethical group, but she had been around the darker side more than enough times to be familiar. She'd rubbed elbows with murderers and dined with thieves. Whether or not she liked it was irrelevant. Once legal lines were crossed, the lines between the various levels of morality and ethics became fuzzy.

The system survived and the black market kept running.

The Thirty-First Charade was a small cornerstone in DC's thievery ring. No one knew what the charade was, or why there was thirty-one, but the name had stuck and held for as long as anyone could remember. It was a bar, typical of most stereotypical Hollywood baselines for these sort of activities. Cops steered clear and only the most idiotic of normal people would mosey inside. It was the proverbial pink elephant in the room that everyone saw but none wanted to talk about.

Brennan stepped inside the bar to discover that there were only a few thieves going about their business in various positions around the room. Most looked like they were about to wrap it up, doing the typical dance before walking outside in opposite, albeit parallel, directions.

Her objective was the bar, and she did not even bother to slip into one of the grimy seats.

"Tom," she said, wrapping her knuckles against the old wood, "Paul Bishop wouldn't happen to be gracing the building with his presence, now would he?"

Tom looked up from the newspaper in his hands. Like the bar, no one knew anything about the owner. His last name was a mystery, his first name likely an alias. All he did was serve drinks and eavesdrop. People didn't notice him, people didn't care about him—until, of course, somebody needed information.

"Joy," he said, "Fishing for a job?"

"Not today," she tried to ignore the smell of stale beer and tobacco, "Is he here?"

"Around back," he gestured with his cigarette.

She nodded and passed through the curtain which separated the main bar from the back room. Although both areas were used for business ventures, something about the back room seemed more formal, thus the reason that high value transactions often occurred here.

Two men glanced up at her arrival. One was somewhere in his thirties with gray hair and grayer eyes. He was lightly built, muscles hinting at hidden strength. The other man was slightly older, though his hair retained its original dusty black coloring. Starting from his forehead to his left cheek was a long scar, earning him the nickname "Scar."

With a nod, the men separated, and Scar walked back around to the bar, leaving Brennan alone with Paul Bishop.

"Joy," he said as she took a seat across from him, "What's a matter? Couldn't last a month as a PI?"

"I see rumor spreads."

"It does," he took a long drag on his cigarette before rubbing it out. "So what brings you to these parts?"

"John Evans."

His eyebrows crimped, "I wasn't aware that he was in need of either of our services."

"He's not. He's dead."

This time, the gray eyebrows shot up, "Dead?"

She nodded.

"Then why are you asking about him? Don't imagine a dead man pays too well."

"It's a matter of interest."

"Curiosity killed the cat."

"Well, it's a good thing I'm not a cat then."

He laughed shortly, his eyes hard, "I see. Then what is it you want to know?"

"Why he was killed."

Bishop leaned back and sat silent for a long time. Just as she was about to prompt him, he opened his mouth, "You're opening quite the can of worms if you investigate this alone."

"I can take care of myself."

He gave her a hard look before shrugging, "Whatever you say."

"Then what can you tell me?"

"You're going to want to check out his financials. His investments. After that, maybe have a chat with Samantha Powell."

"Powell? What does she have to do with this?"

"That'll become apparent pretty fast."

"Is there a reason you're being so vague?"

"That'll become apparent pretty fast."

"Don't stonewall me, Paul."

"Get used to it, Joy. No one's going to want to talk about this."

"I see," she got up, "Anything else you'd like to tell me?"

He shook his head.

As she made for the exit, Bishop's voice stopped her, "Joy?"

"Yes?" she turned.

"Be...careful."

"Touched by your concern, Paul," she replied, "But I'll be fine."

He nodded and she left the room.

--

Arguably, there are, like the thieving community, two sides to the proverbial coin. What was frustrating was when one needed both a heads and a tails on the same flip but possessed only one coin. That was the point where one chose a lesser evil, though Brennan had experienced times where there was no lesser evil, rather there was just a matter of kill-or-be-killed, fight or flight—either with lasting repercussions.

But Brennan had never once thought that her two-sided coin would include an FBI agent and a dead investment banker.

She had heard stories of others within her circle who had gotten involved with feds as an end result of trying to manipulate them—often ending up with the unfortunate thief rotting in a jail cell while the agent received pats on the back. Then there were the standoffs that sometimes erupted into gunshots and the metallic sent of blood, leaving someone to die alone in a back alley of a warehouse.

Initially, one or both of these scenarios plagued Brennan's mind at various times throughout her relationship with Booth. Nightmares of cops showing up at her door and Booth drawing his gun on her had kept her distant from the agent for a time. But eventually the images faded, whatever bond the two had formed banishing them to a far corner of her mind. For now, they were both content.

But this bond also meant that he cared for her. Normally this kind of thing was good. It was essentially the insurance that he wasn't going to betray her, and allowed her to reciprocate the same feelings toward him. But when it came to matters of business, there are times when one has to be allowed to carry out a plan without interference. If the plan just happens to hint at danger, then so be it. Brennan was used to this sort of thing anyway. In fact, she found it rather exhilarating.

However, Booth felt that she should not go out to question a bunch of thieves, thugs, and possible murderers alone. His take was that it was too dangerous and that she would need him—the FBI's own personal beefcake—to accompany her.

She did not feel this way, and had followed him as far as the J Edgar Hoover building to argue with him. Stepping into his office, she closed the door and sat in the seat across from his desk.

"I've been working with these people for almost half of my life, Booth," she said to him, "I know how to talk to them."

Booth sighed and took a seat in his own desk chair, "So do I. I'm an FBI agent."

"Yes," her voice grew dry, "And that is the problem."

"What's the problem? I've got a badge, a gun, and people skills. I've interrogated hundreds of suspects."

"I have a gun too, lest you forget. But that is not the issue," she reached across the desk and gave him a soft, albeit patronizing pat on the hand, "You, my dear, could be wearing a neon sign on your chest proclaiming 'COP' and you would be no less obvious then you are right now."

"Is that a bad thing?"

"Normally no; it isn't. But when dealing with the underbelly of society, one must be apart of it."

"Bones, I—"

She held up a hand and he quieted, "I can tell you how this would play out if I let you come with me to talk to my associates. Everyone there would recognize you as a cop immediately, and then rumors would start to spread about me accompanying you—especially since we're investigating a murder. The assumption would be that either I was helping you by ratting on them or I was manipulating you for something.

"If anyone with a moderate degree of ranking believed it was the former, I'd be signing my own death warrant. If they thought it was the latter, I'd be signing your death warrant."

"I thought you said they were non-violent."

"Generally the people I deal with are. They're more the type to chlorofoam security rather than poison them. However, turning an entire community on its ear would cause hostilities even among placid people. Not to mention we don't even know for sure if this will involve more than just my group."

"You sound like an anthropologist," he groaned, "And how are they 'your group'? I thought you quit."

"I did," she said smugly, then stole a candy from the jar on his desk.

He exhaled, "You sure don't act like it."

"These careers stay with you forever, Booth," she unwrapped the candy and popped it in her mouth, "I mean, if you quit being an agent today would you stop acting like one tomorrow?"

He didn't reply.

"Exactly."

After a moment he reached over and retrieved a candy as well.

"These are good," Brennan said approvingly, "Butterscotch?"

"Yeah," he slowly unwrapped it.

"Oh, don't sulk. You wouldn't much like my people anyway."

" 'Your people' ?"

She ignored him, "Bit too rough for you. Though some of them aren't all bad."

"Oh God," he rubbed his face with his hands, "I don't want to know what that means."

"I haven't been involved with any of them, if that's what you're thinking. And besides, you were the one who asked me to talk to them in the first place."

"Yeah, well, I changed my mind."

Brennan watched him chew on the butterscotch, "You're agitated."

Her only reply was the crunch of hard candy and a look of growing discomfort.

"Wait. You know something."

He said nothing.

"What is it?"

Booth took a wary glance out his glass office doors, speaking only after a few excruciating moments, "Our guy, Evans, he had some dirty money on him."

"Dirty money?" her eyebrows raised, "Where does an investment banker get..." she stopped. "Oh."

"Now you're the one who knows something."

"Yes. That explains something to me," she ignored the question on his face. "How do you know it was dirty?"

"He had money in a bunch of different banks, and a lot of foreign cash, not to mention a whole bunch of other things that you wouldn't really care about. We connected the dots. What do you know, Bones?"

"Well, I don't actually know anything, but I think I know what Bishop was alluding to."

"So you _do_ know Bishop."

"Yeah," she got up, "So want to do dinner tonight?"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," he shot up and stepped between her and the door, "What's the rush? And you still haven't told me what you're thinking."

"I have to talk to someone," she said and tried to sidestep him.

"Who?"

"An old acquaintance."

"What kind of acquaintance?"

"A _business_ acquaintance."

"The old import/export line?"

"The very same," she made to move past him again, trying to ignore the feeling of being trapped that was starting to uncurl in her gut.

"Bones," he held out a hand to quiet her, "No dangerous freelancing, right?"

"I'm not making any promises."

"You're not reassuring me here."

"Didn't we just have this conversation? Several times?"

"Yeah, and it went nowhere. Isn't there anyone you can go with?"

"No. And the arguments will continue to fail if you continue this line of questioning."

"Why so tense all of a sudden, Bones?" he studied her now.

"It suddenly occurred to me that I walked directly into the FBI office and you are in between me and my exit."

He quickly moved aside, "You still don't trust me?" he sounded hurt.

"I do," she gave him a quick kiss, but it lacked heart, "Just primal instincts."

He gently grabbed her wrist as she made to leave, "I hope it is, Bones." He released her.

"It is," she replied, "So dinner tonight?"

"Yeah. My place."

He nodded and she tossed him a quick wave before exiting.

Her car was hidden amongst three others of the same model, and by the time she finally got it onto the road and headed toward her destination, she did not notice as the large black SUV and FBI beefcake followed her out.


	3. Banks and Charades

_-Chapter Three-_

Somewhere between nowhere and less-than-nowhere was located a small building with peeling paint and bullet-proof glass surrounded by brick. Outside of it was a tiny parking lot—so small that no one ever bothered to check it for a space for it was always invariably filled. In fact, it was such a ritual for everyone to ignore it that often the three and a half spaces remained unoccupied the entire day. Brennan was aware of this, and she pulled into the small lot to squeeze next to a van. Feeling lucky, she climbed out of her car and glanced around.

If there was anything she had learned in all these years it was that luck never lasted.

Seeing nothing suspicious, she clicked up the stairs leading to the building. Rain clouds were building in the sky, but the snow was melted on the grounds and no water was coming down just yet. She could smell the moisture however, and she knew by the time she walked back out she would need her coat.

Brennan opened the large double-pane glass door and stepped through. The interior was fairly empty, only one bored-looking person standing near a side-door. She walked up to him.

"Anyone in?"

He jumped and she realized he must have been dozing, "What?"

"I need to talk to Sam."

He stared at her for a while, "Wait. Joy? What the hell are you doing here?"

She had been studying him as well, but his name proved allusive, "I have business here."

More staring. She was about to repeat her request when he sighed and stepped aside, "She's here."

She nodded and opened the door, slipping inside.

There were three couches, all located on walls that could be seen from the doors on the left and right. In the center of the room, hanging close to the ceiling, was a large light, a ring of beads encircling it. A few fake plants adorned corners and the small table under the light. A couple paintings hung from various positions along the walls, none of which were obtained legally. Somewhere in here was also security cameras, at least ten of them.

Brennan remembered what the room on the left contained. Lining two walls were rows and rows of filing cabinets. A few notations in code marked the sections. Anyone who didn't know the place would assume it was a storage room, and, in a way, it was. The locks on the cabinets were special-made, pick proof. The only persons capable of unlocking them was the person with the codes. The door that guarded it was virtually impregnable, and almost no one was able to get in without an escort.

Brennan ignored this door and headed right, running into another guard in the process,

"Still kicking around, Joy?" he asked, "Thought for sure you were caught in your last raid."

"Been keeping up with my business?" she replied.

"Your business is our business, despite the fact that you play us like cheap pianos."

"I told you I never wanted to work for you guys directly."

"And yet you always seem to make a profit."

"What can I say? I'm multi-talented."

"Indeed," he crossed his arms, "What are you doing here?"

"Business."

"I see. Sam's not in the best of moods."

She raised a brow, "What's got her ruffled?"

"We had a leak."

"I see."

"Sam's got the aftermath to deal with."

"Well, I guess it's good I know her pretty well then."

He nodded and stepped aside.

She mirrored the head movement and entered the office.

Here there were more filing cabinets. From floor to ceiling it was papers and notes. A massive desk stood in the center, papers scattered around as if a tornado had come spinning through not long ago. Behind it was a woman with prematurely gray hair pulled into a barrette, her eyeglasses hanging precariously from the end of her nose. Brennan took a seat and it was a moment before the woman realized she was there.

"Joy," she said.

"Sam," she replied.

Samantha Powell slowly slid off her glasses, the movement fluid and precise. Her deep crimson shirt had a high collar, partially hiding the delicate gold chain around her neck, on which hung a gold condor—which she always wore. She was slowly marching toward forty, over half the road already tread, and her eyes were tired. Her right cheekbone bore a long scar, traveling horizontally across its lines. Sam's most captivating feature were her irises, which were gray with a slight purple undertone. Flecked in the smoky colours were black stripes, two in each eye. They gave one the uneasy feeling that she was staring into a tiger's eyes, and Sam played on the uneasiness.

"So what brings you here?"

Brennan smiled, "Everyone has asked me that."

"They can't help it. No one talks to them."

She raised a brow and jabbed a thumb behind her, "You don't talk to your own husband?"

"Eh," she grinned and gave a light shrug.

Brennan leaned back and stared at the painting behind her, "Hey, I remember that."

"As you should. It was your job."

"Could barely get that thing out the door. Last time I ever took a commission to steal a large gallery piece."

"But I paid you pretty well."

"Indeed."

"So really, Joy, what are you doing here?" she asked, leaning back, "You don't look financially underground."

"I'm not." Brennan crossed her legs and explained the situation.

Sam said nothing for a long time, her fingers absently trailing over the papers in front of her. Finally, she looked up, "Why are you interested in Evans?"

"A name was attached to his that I recognized." She didn't mention Bishop, "I was curious."

"Know anything about the police involvement?"

Brennan shook her head once.

Sam sighed, "I myself would like to know more about Evans."

"What specifically?"

"Two things: One, why he screwed with business, and, two, who killed him."

"You're not planning to plug anymore leaks, are you?"

"Not personally."

That didn't answer her question, but she let it go, "Want me to keep you in the loop?"

"No. I want to _be_ the loop. I'll give you my information and in exchange you'll tell me what you find."

Brennan nodded, "Sounds fair."

"Then it's a deal?"

She nodded and Sam exhaled.

"So what do you know?"

The tiger eyes met her own, "I'll start at the beginning."

Twenty minutes later, Brennan rose and walked from the room, nodding goodbye to the guards on the way out.

From behind a closed door, Samantha Powell, leader of DC's Underground Bank, sighed and filed away her papers.

--

It was raining again as Brennan negotiated her way through the Bank's parking lot. The building was overheated for winter, and she had not enjoyed the shift from thirties to seventies back down to thirties. There was something to be said for consistent temperatures, and the cold was welcome. She decided to take a walk around the block to stretch her legs a little.

Assuming Sam was telling the truth, and she had no reason to suspect otherwise, Brennan had some work to do. She would have to keep Sam's involvement away from Booth's and vica versa, meaning this could end up as a giant pain in the ass. Sighing, she ran her fingers through her hair and continuing walking for many minutes before she was stopped by a familiar sight.

Her hands slid to her hips. "You have got to be kidding me," she muttered and her hands slid back down to her sides as she stalked over to the car and yanked open the door.

Seeley Booth was bent sideways so that he would not be visible from the dash or side windows, his eyes guiltily drifting up to meet her own. "Hey, Bones," he said. "I was, um...looking for my, uh, pen!" the last part of his sentence was uttered triumphantly as he brandished said implement into the air.

"Mm-hm," Brennan said, one eyebrow raised as she crossed her hands in front of her chest.

"Yeah."

She continued to gaze at him.

He slowly sat up, "Um, Bones, could you stop looking at me like that?"

Her raised eyebrow lifted further and she cocked her head.

He met her eyes for a few moments before looking back down and tapping his fingers against his thigh.

She continued to study him. The way his eyebrows kept twitching as he avoided her gaze, the light gray stubble around his lips and lower jaw, the bunching and unbunching of his jaw muscles, his adam's apple as it bobbed up and down and up and—

"Okay. Okay. I followed you here."

She smirked, "I know." Her right hand slid off her chest and slapped against the SUV, her left back down at her hip. She leaned on the car. "You know, for a cop you don't withstand pressure very well."

He made a sound somewhere between a snort and a grunt.

"So was this amateur espionage done for my safety or for my information?"

"What do you think?"

Her eyebrows lowered, "I think that you followed me even after I had explained to you that it was a dangerous idea. I think that you ignored me. And I think that you'd better hope that no one is watching."

The expression on his faced morphed from one of concern to one of fear as she slammed his car door and walked around to the passenger's side and hopped in. "Drive," she said, looking at him.

He did, looking confused.

"It turns out that Evans was a rat, or at least suspected to be one. However, just that suspicion would be enough to insure his untimely demise."

"Who did he rat on?"

"It's more like a who _and_ a what." She exhaled, "An acquaintance of mine runs the DC Underground Bank. Do you know what that is?"

"Sort of."

"It's essentially the same as a legal bank, only it isn't actually legal. It services trusted members of corrupt organizations or trades—such as thievery. One can go to similar Underground Banks in other states or countries with a note from another Bank and be able to take out cash. That may explain why Evans had so much foreign cash in his house."

"Okay."

"The names of the key players involved in any of the Banks and evidence of their existence would be valuable to any federal agency. The location or codes to some of the cash would also be valuable. And, more than anything else, the names of corrupt government employees which partially allow for the Bank's existence would be almost priceless. However, the Bank is very important to the whole black economy, and no one who is apart of it would want it to suddenly disappear."

"Including you?"

She paused for a moment before nodding once.

"Go on."

"Considering how important the information is to the whole underground community, it is doubtful that too many who are directly involved would snitch. _But_ those that are not directly affected and who would profit more from the Bank's collapse than success would be tempted to start selling what they know. That is why a sort of zero-tolerance rule was created, the sort of rule that everyone knows about but has never been officially written down. If there is so much as a threat of a leak, drastic action is often taken. If anyone is proven to be guilty of selling information, his life would be as good as lost."

He nodded, slowing in the traffic they were coming to, "So Evans was proven to be guilty?"

"Well, the rumor was that he had been in contact with a certain AUSA at the time of his death."

"Who?"

She exhaled again, "Caroline."

"Wait." He flinched and the car lurched forward a little before he regained control, "Caroline? Caroline Julian?"

"Yes. But it's my understanding that he was killed before he was able to actually give her any information."

"Is she safe?"

"As long as she doesn't know anything."

He groaned, "Why does it always happen to us?"

"I don't know but I think you should double back and drop me at a café so that it looks as if I just went out for a coffee after leaving. It's a good thing you parked so far away from the building."

"Right." His voice was distracted now.

"There is another person I want to talk to, but I think first we should talk to Caroline. I was involved in the Cabot case so she shouldn't question who I am." She leaned back in her chair as he turned the car. "After that, we'll see..." her voice trailed off.

There was silence until he parked the car about ten minutes away from the Bank and she unclasped her seatbelt.

"Bones?" his voice stopped her and she looked back at him, "Are you sure you want to get involved?"

Brennan smiled, "It's already too late to pull out." She reached across the seat and rubbed his arm reassuringly. "But it will be alright."

"You promise?"

She nodded and hopped out. "Dinner later for sure. See you later, Seeley." She strode away.

--

Caroline did not have to be found. There was no need for an arrangement for a meeting. When Booth walked into his office only fifteen minutes after talking to his makeshift-partner, the AUSA was seated in his chair and thumbing through the candy jar on his desk. When Booth saw her, he turned to walk out but she was sharper than he gave her credit for.

"Seeley Booth!" her voice rang sharp with commandment, "Are you running away from me?"

"No. I was, uh, going to get...coffee!" He groaned inwardly. This would be the second time today that he lied to someone who would know better instantly.

"Uh huh." She gestured at his desk, "Get your butt over here, chére, because we have to talk."

He obeyed and waited for her to initiate. It didn't take long.

"Why wasn't I told that one of my would-be informants was murdered?"

"We didn't know he was in contact with you."

" 'Didn't' ?" She repeated. "That means you knew when you walked in this door, or at least you almost did before spotting me."

"I only just found out, Caroline."

"From where?" She gestured around. "You weren't here. You weren't at the Jeffersonian."

He shifted uncomfortably.

"I do not like that look, chére."

"I need to make a phone call," Booth said and got up.

"I'll be waiting when you get back." Her voice hinted at a threat.

With another inward groan, the agent walked out, heading for the elevator. When he reached the ground floor, he quickly headed outside the building and flipped out his cell phone.

"Brennan," her voice answered with a hint of impatience.

"Bones, I—"

"Booth, I'm fine. There's no need to continue to check up on me. It hasn't even been a half hour yet."

"I wasn't calling about that. I found Caroline." Technically.

"You did? Where is she going to meet us?" From somewhere in the background he heard the distinct sounds of traffic.

"Well, she's kind of already here."

"At the Hoover building." She groaned. "I'll be there in a few minutes. Wait for me out front." The line clicked off.

Booth tucked the phone back inside his breast pocket and leaned against the wall. There was no telling how Caroline would react to Brennan. Neither of them were particularly tactful, nor did they have any intention of acting as if they were. If battle ensued he would be caught helplessly in the middle and, at the slightest hint of his involvement, they would drag him in entirely.

The worst part was that if he threatened to shoot either of them, they would dangle the same threat in front of him. There were some days he really preferred negotiating with the squints.

He had been waiting approximately ten minutes when his phone chirped. "Seeley Booth!" Caroline now sounded more irritated then Brennan. "Where are you?"

"Out front."

"For the love of God, why?"

"I needed some fresh air," he replied sarcastically. He was starting to get irked by all the female spatting being turned his way.

"How much longer are you going to need your air?"

He spotted someone walking toward him from down the street, "I'm coming up now."

"Good." Once more, the line went dead in his ear.

Booth got off the wall and stood up straighter.

Brennan clicked toward him, her pace fast yet fatigued. She naturally walked quickly and he sometimes had trouble keeping up when she tried to out-pace him. Right now though, she merely had the demeanor of someone who desperately wanted to go home, down a glass of wine, and go to bed early. Her dull brown trench coat was flowing around her knees as she walked, fitting her perfectly from years of usage, looking as worn as she did. In contrast, however, her eyes were scanning the crowds and the traffic, flicking from one object to another, never resting on one thing too long.

"Hey, Bones," he said with a hint of false cheeriness.

"Hey," she nodded and they walked into the FBI building.

Neither spoke until they reached the agent's office, where Caroline was leafing through a large manila file. "About time," she said when she spotted them. "Who are you?"

"Temperance Brennan," Brennan said, offering a hand. Caroline shook it and gave her own name. The thief nodded and dropped into the chair beside her while Booth walked behind his desk and took his seat.

"So was this the 'fresh air' you were breathing in, Booth?" Caroline asked him.

"No. I was waiting for her." He didn't feel up to something more witty.

Brennan got right to the point, "You were the AUSA talking to John Evans?"

"Yes. Or at least I was trying to."

"He wasn't communicating?"

"Oh, he was. He's the one who came to me in the first place. We just never had the chance to actually sit down and exchange information."

"So what do you know?"

"I know he knew something about about dirty money and fraud." She sighed, "Another juicy case slips me by."

Relief flashed in Brennan's eyes for a moment, "How did he get in contact with you?"

"Dammed if I know. I just picked up the phone one day and there he was."

"Didn't you question him?"

"No. He was so twitchy I was almost afraid to breath." The attorney sighed, "Do you know who killed him, Booth?"

He shook his head. "Not yet."

"Well, ain't that just peachy." She got up and pointed at Brennan, "Isn't she the PI that worked on the Beckett case?"

"Yes. I am," Brennan said.

She looked at her. "As I understand it you were the one who dug up most of the information. Why don't you pull another miracle like that?"

"I—"

Caroline didn't hear her. She was already gone.

Brennan looked at Booth, "That was surprisingly quick."

"Caroline doesn't do small talk," Booth replied.

"Apparently." She inhaled and released the breath slowly, "What now?"

"That dinner we've been talking about all day?"

She raised an eyebrow as she glanced at her clock, "At five o'clock?"

"Why not?" He got up and walked around to her. "We're both tired and there's no reason to eat late."

"I am not tired," she said and rose.

"Of course not." He grinned at her. "Know where you'd like to go?"

"No. I'll leave that to you." She walked out.

He stood there for a moment, staring at the empty space where she had once stood and sighed. This woman did not know how to recognize an opening. Running to catch up with her, he quickly decided on a restaurant and formulated an excuse as to why he should drive her there.

--

"You know, Bones?"

"Yes, Booth?"

"I'm glad you let me drive and choose a restaurant, but still..."

"What?"

He exhaled, "Why did you invite the squint along as well?"

Brennan grinned tiredly, "Because I knew I would definitely fall asleep through dinner if it was just us."

"That hurts, Bones." His hand slid to the left side of his chest.

"Your heart isn't actually located there; that's why the sternum is where it is." She pointed to the correct spot on her chest. "And besides, you have to admit you enjoy their company."

She noted the dubious expression on his face as he regarded the rest of the table.

Zack was in what appeared to be a deep conversation with Cam, but upon listening it was revealed that he was questioning the limits on his experimentation. Apparently he wanted to shoot some sort of melon and then drop it from a great height. Cam's leg was jiggling and she was attempting to catch the attention of a waiter, no doubt wanting another martini, listening to the forensic anthropologist with perhaps half an ear.

Meanwhile, Hodgins was having a one-sided conversation of his own with Angela—one in which he recited facts and conclusions and she said "uh-huh" at regular intervals, her eyes also fixed on the waiter Cam was trying to flag. She had an empty wine glass by her plate, and Brennan was confident that the artist was going to order something a little stronger.

"I think 'enjoy' is a little strong, Bones," Booth said after a beat.

Brennan grinned wolfishly, "I don't."

At that moment, the scientists switched gears—Angela focusing her attention on Cam while Zack started to motion to Hodgins with an open notepad. The entomologist, realizing his girlfriend's attention was now elsewhere, shifted closer to his partner in crime and they began to compare notes, while Cam and Angela finally snared the waiter.

"With our limitations," Zack began, "I think this is the most we can do." He sketched something out.

Hodgins' eyebrows crinkled and he added an additional notation. Zack scratched his forehead and ran the hand through his hair. "I'm not sure we can do that."

"Of course we can. Just make sure that _this_ is in good condition." He jabbed his pen at something.

"Hey, it was a miscalculation. I didn't realize it had rusted over during all of that time of misuse."

"Well, that's what happens when something is ignored for so long, Zack. Took me a week to clean all of that up."

"I seem to remember you took Angela out to dinner almost every night that week, leaving me to take charge."

"Eh, subtle technicalities."

Brennan was about to ask what they were plotting when she noticed Angela gesturing her over. Grinning, she moved to join them.

"Bones," Booth hissed. "Don't leave me alone with them."

She shrugged and gave him an evilly innocent look. "Oh, you can handle them."

"Bones."

It was too late. She was with the women of the lab.

'Poor Booth,' Brennan thought as the agent, left alone, was asked a question by Hodgins while Zack showed him a drawing. 'Oh well.'

"So, Bren, want anything to drink?" Angela asked.

The ex-thief turned and glanced at the still-captive waiter. "No. No alcohol for me tonight."

"Oh, come on," Angela ribbed her, "Live a little."

"No." She jabbed a finger at Booth, "I have a feeling he'll be having a few beers if he has to stay with those two any longer." She grinned an unsympathetic grin.

Cam laughed as the waiter made a hasty retreat.

"So what did you guys want to talk about?"

Angela raised a brow. "I think you still don't understand the nuances of chatting. There doesn't always have to be a goal, sweetie."

"So we're just talking?"

Cam raised her martini and took a sip. "That's the idea."

"I see."

"So I hear you met up with Caroline earlier,"the pathologist went on. "What did she want?"

"Booth is keeping you guys updated on Evans?"

They nodded and she quickly explained.

"Ah," Cam said.

"That's disappointing," Angela muttered and downed her own martini. "Caroline's so puckish I thought she was up to something."

"Up to something?" Brennan repeated. "Like what?"

She grinned evilly and pointed at Booth.

"What do you mean?"

Cam bit back a grin as Angela sighed and thought to herself for a moment. When she seemed to come to a decision, she reached onto the table and picked up the salt and pepper shakers, as well as a tube of mustard.

"This is Caroline," the artist explained, pointing at the mustard. "And this is you," she pointed at pepper, "And this is Booth," she pointed at salt.

"Okay."

Angela began puppeting the mustard and assumed a fake New Orleans' accent. " 'Oh, I've heard of your Evans boy, but I'm feeling a little puckish today.' "

The salt shaker moved, " 'What do you want, Caroline?' "

Mustard, " 'Kiss her. Ten steamboats.' "

Pepper, " 'Ten? Isn't that a bit excessive?' "

Mustard, " 'Not at all.' "

Pepper, " 'And what if I refuse?' "

Mustard, " 'I guess you'll just have to continue to investigation without my help.' "

At this point, Angela moved the two shakers together and began making obscene noises in an imitation kiss—Brennan's cheeks burning and turning red. Cam grinned. Angela kept it at it for much longer then ten steamboats; by the time she had finally stopped, the entire table was staring, Booth as red as Brennan.

"That was...interesting, Angela," Hodgins said weakly while Zack stared at her with a slack jaw.

The artist shrugged. "Had to be done, Hodgy."

He still looked unconvinced; she shifted closer to him.

Cam, possibly guessing as to what would happen next, spoke up, "I think it's time I called it a night." She got up and smiled, shrugging on her coat and scarf. "I'll see you people tomorrow?"

Nods all around.

"Thanks for covering dinner, Seeley," she slipped on her gloves. "It'll be my treat next time."

"You're welcome, Camille," he replied as she clicked away.

"We should probably go too," Hodgins said. "We have...business to take care of."

Zack exhaled at the euphemism. "Just wait until you drive me home."

"Okay, Z-man," Angela said. She then looked at Brennan, "I'll see you tomorrow, sweetie, and maybe make those little salt'n'pepper shakers become a reality tonight, huh?"

Brennan blinked as Booth blushed an even deeper crimson.

"Bye," Zack said. Everyone else exchanged a goodbye before departing.

Booth quickly paid the bill and got up, wrapping Brennan's old coat around her shoulders as she readjusted her own scarf.

"You still glad they came?" he asked as they walked to his car and opened the door for her.

"Yeah," she said and climbed in. "Are you?"

He answered as he closed his own door and started the engine. "Yeah. I am."

"Good." She snuggled into her seat, the chill from outside having followed her in. "My apartment please."

"What about your car?"

"We can get it tomorrow."

"Okay, Bones." He backed out and slipped onto the street. "Then onward we go."

--

His fingers slid across the warm surface of his side of the bed, slowly traveling into cooler and cooler temperature zones. Even with his eyes closes and brain still partially in dreamland, he knew this was wrong. A grin spread across his face when he finally felt a touch of warmth, and he quickly moved his hand to touch what was creating the heat.

Ten claws wrapped around his hand.

Booth's eyes opened.

Faye had still managed to maintain a balled position, despite the fact that her forepaws were now holding a frozen prey. In fact, she still looked so comfortable he would've believed she was still sleeping if her emerald eyes weren't glued to his in a look of pure disdain. He smiled disarmingly at her; she tightened her hold.

Oh great. Now both of the occupants in this apartment had control over his actions.

His brow knit and he glanced back over at where Faye had been sleeping. Brennan was no longer there.

Dammit.

He slung an arm over his forehead, making sure that his other hand remained still. He didn't know why the thief was no longer in her bed, but he was sure that whatever the reason was, it meant trouble. And if there was trouble, he had to do his part to try to divert it.

Which meant that he needed to get up.

Which meant that he had to try to disentangle himself from Faye.

First, he tried to pull out his hand. As expected, a few claws sunk deeper into his flesh. He suppressed a yelp as he tried to apply his other hand to remove her paws. Her back claws wrapped around his wrist.

With both hands trapped, he thought of a new plan.

Twisting his wrists in opposite directions, he tried to angle his arms to shove away her own. A growl warned him that if he continued to do that, her teeth would get involved. He blinked, froze for a moment, and then decided on something drastic.

Quickly, he yanked one hand free as the other dove under the blanket. His free hand now covered in superficial scratches, he used it to flip her paws off his trapped hand. With both hands free once more, he grinned at her.

Faye glared at him in a look of utter disgust before plodding over to Brennan's pillow, laying down, and closing her eyes.

"Jeez," the agent muttered, rolling out of bed and reaching for his clothes. "I'm not sure if she gets it from Bones or it's the other way around." Shaking his head, he slipped them on and glanced around. His eyes were caught by the silhouette in the window.

This late at night, the moon was in the center of the horizon, shining through a thick blanket of clouds. He was surprised to see that it was still snowing, but much less surprised to note that the silhouette was covered in nothing more than a terry cloth robe. Sighing, he turned and grabbed a blanket before walking outside.

Brennan stood on the balcony with both hands on the snow covered railing, seemingly oblivious to the biting cold as she stared at the city. Her hair was speckled white, her blue robe icy from the snow. But at least she had shoes on.

She flinched as he wrapped the blanket around her shoulders, her head whipping around.

"Booth?" she said as he made sure the blanket would not slip. "What're you doing up?"

"I got a wake-up call from Faye." He jabbed a thumb behind him.

Her eyebrows crinkled. "Did she step on you or something?"

"No. I reached onto her side of the bed."

She glanced down at his scratched hand and shook her head. "Shouldn't have done that."

He pursed his lips in mock annoyance. "What? Not even a little sympathy?"

She shrugged, "Shouldn't have reached on her side of the bed. It's your fault for antagonizing her."

"Antagonizing her?" he repeated. "I just reached over and—"

"To a cat, that's antagonizing."

He scowled and rolled his eyes. She grinned at him before turning back to look at the city again.

"What are you doing out here anyway, Bones?" he asked, reaching for her hand. It was icy cold. "I was worried for a moment."

"Worried?" she looked at him again. "Why?"

"Because whenever you go anywhere by yourself, trouble starts."

"That's not true, Booth. At least not always." He had lost her eyes again.

"You okay?" he squeezed her cold hand.

"Yes. Why wouldn't I be?"

"Oh, I don't know. You're standing out in the middle of a blizzard in the middle of the night."

"You used 'in the middle' twice in one sentence. What is it? The phrase of the day?"

He groaned.

"Besides, it's only barely snowing now. This does not constitute a blizzard."

"Bones," he sighed. "Just let the wording go."

She nodded.

"So what's the problem?" he prompted when she said nothing.

"There isn't really a problem. I always used to go outside and look at the sky when I was thinking about something."

"Why?"

She shrugged. "It's quiet. Serene. I can sort out my thoughts better."

"But you can't see the sky," he kidded softly.

She shrugged again, "It doesn't really matter."

"Then what are you thinking about tonight?"

"Change."

He watched her continue to stare at the dark horizon. "Are you homesick or something?"

"Not really. I've been to more alien places. I think it's nostalgia more than anything."

"Do you miss thievery?"

"Sometimes I think so and sometimes I don't." She raised a hand to run through her hair but recoiled at it's iciness. "It's not as if I've escaped legally, and I'm still in danger if the syndicate decides I know too much. It feels like I've only escaped a past that's been superimposed on the present." Her hand slid back onto the railing. "But at the same time, I miss the feeling of freedom that comes with thievery. I was regulated by no one. I came and went as I pleased. Obviously, there were limitations, but for the most part I was independent, and worked when I wanted to. But now..." she sighed and the breath puffed out in a cloud of white. "Now I feel like there's an obligation to stay in one place.

"And then there's Evans, whom I have to investigate for three different sides, none of which can know too much about the other two."

"What do you mean? What three sides?"

She glanced over at him but said nothing, though her eyes told him to let it go.

He did. "But why did you leave if you liked the criminal world so much?"

"I didn't like it. It was corrupt and crushing. I survived because I learned the ropes, but that's probably the only reason." She looked at him. "I may have been free, but..." her eyes grew harrowed, "I've seen a lot of terrible things." She turned once more to regard the glittering lights of DC.

Booth wasn't sure what to do. She was still collected, her voice level and almost conversational; only her eyes and behavior gave any indication that something was wrong. She wasn't upset, simply lost in memory.

In the end, Brennan was the first to speak. "Sometimes I get like this when I'm tired," she smiled wearily. "You don't have to worry about me, Booth. Really." Turning, she walked to the door and opened it.

He followed her as she shrugged off her robe and slid under the blankets of the bed, carefully avoiding Faye from where she slept on a pillow, and wrapped an arm over her shoulder. She reached for his hand and he started to rub the iciness away.

"Booth?" she asked eons later.

"Yeah?"

"I've been curious..." she turned to him. "Well, actually Angela rekindled my curiosity, but I've still been curious..."

"Yes?" he asked before she could continue to justify her question.

"Why do you call me Bones?"

He paused and thought to himself.

"It seems strange considering the fact that I don't even work with them."

He continued to think.

"I mean, you don't call Zack anything special, and he's an anthropologist."

More thinking.

"It just—"

"Shh," he interrupted, holding a hand in front of her face. She turned to him with scrunched eyebrows but said nothing. He used his outstretched hand to point to an old bookcase in the far corner of the room.

"Don't think I didn't notice them, Bones," he said softly. "That shelf is filled with bone books, and I've seen a few of the real bones you keep around this apartment. Now, I don't know where your interest is coming from, but I do know that when you're around skeletons and death, there's a change about you. I'm not sure it's a good thing, but..." he sighed. "You look content, focused, in your niche.

"None of the squints are leading particularly glamorous lives. Hell, I'm not sure they're even happy, but all of them have found something they love. Hodgins, he's got his weird thing with bugs, Zack's got his bones, Angela—she's got her art on the side, and Cam is happy slicing and dicing dead people. You found your way to them and to that lab, and look like a kid in a candy store every time someone pulls out a bone.

"I don't really think those bones would bring you happiness, Temperance, but I think maybe you wouldn't get so lost in thought on a balcony at one o'clock in the morning you don't even notice your hands are freezing."

She tucked the hand that wasn't held by his own under her pillow in response.

"I guess," he reached under the pillow and retrieved her hand to brush it against his lips. "I call you Bones to remind you of your niche so that you won't get lost in your past. And yes, I know that it's too late for you to end up like Zack, but you've been allowed into the Jeffersonian. You have a window into what may have been, and I want to remind you that that window, and the feelings on the other side, don't need to be reserved just for that museum." He turned up her chin with his fingers. "Do you understand now?"

"Yes," she said softly.

"Good." He kissed her and then her hand again before unceremoniously rolling over. "Now, I would like to get some sleep tonight, so can you inform Faye that she will have to sleep somewhere other than my pillow?"

She laughed and reached over him for the cat, who, grudgingly, got up to wedge herself between the two of them.

"Night, Booth," he heard her say.

"Night, Bones," he replied.

Faye didn't say anything, but both of them knew that she was asleep.

--

It was another one of those snowy, cold, and relatively dreary mornings. Booth had left the apartment with her, a thermos of coffee in his hand, and the taste of green tea on her lips. They had exchanged a brief kiss goodbye before he had driven down to the Hoover building and she had shuffled down to her car, opened the door, inserted the key, and driven away.

Now she was back in front of the Thirty-First Charade, the lot around her empty of other vehicles. She hadn't liked that, and had parked a few blocks away so that she wouldn't be as obvious to any casual observers. Sighing, Brennan opened the old wooden door and slipped inside.

There were three people in a back corner of the bar, their presence occasionally emphasized by the small flick of a flame, a glowing red speck, and the exhalation of a long cloud of smoke. When they were still the gray cloud resembled a serpent dancing his way through the air before slowly dispersing. The air was acrid and stale from decades of tobacco use, the main patrons long since used to it. Outsiders tended to cough a lot when they first stepped in. Brennan however did not pause in stride, walking with slow and deliberate steps to the bar, where she settled on a grimy stool.

A few stools down, a man with an old black-brimmed hat sat tucked into his drink despite the earlier hour. He could've just arrived, he could've been there all night. A pipe hung loosely from his mouth, and when he drank it was around it, although, miraculously, neither the pipe nor a drop of liquid fell with any sip. An ashtray was on his left, a burned-out cigar pushed deep inside of it. It was unclear whether or not the cigar had once belonged to the man, or to a different person.

Tom the barkeeper slipped out from the back room, his apron dirty and his person smelling of smoke. It was said that he had started the trend of smoking in here, for apparently in the bar's former life it had been clean and sanitary. 'The irony,' Brennan thought with a tinge of bitterness, 'Is that now it's become a cornerstone of filth and greed.'

She had never once brought a cigarette to her lips.

"Joy," Tom said, "Back again?"

"Yes," she said and nodded.

"For Evans? Or another matter?"

She didn't ask how he knew about her dead investment banker. It wasn't worth questioning. With a slight shake of her head, she said, "Evans."

He leaned back and nodded but said nothing.

"From what Powell told me, I'm starting to think there's more to this then a dead person."

He remained quiet, sliding a cigarette out of his trousers' pocket and slipping it into his mouth, offering her the small cardboard box as he did so. She shook her head. Likely he was aware she didn't smoke, but it was customary to make the offer.

"I'm aware that you usually sell your information, but I would like to know anything you're willing to share for free."

"Funds running low?" he asked with a knowing tone, his voice curling up in something that sounded vaguely like a snort. He lit his cigarette. "I can tell you that your reckoning is decent. There is more to the stiff then first meets the eye."

"On the body? Or are we discussing circumstance?"

He nodded, indicating neither answer as being correct. "Right now you're getting involved in internal politics. There's a little more corruption here than usual."

"How so?" she asked.

"You've got a Bank with a leak, a dead snitch, and a ton of ripped off cash." He took a long drag on the cigarette, and the butt burned red for a moment. "But considering the Gestapo hasn't come to blow us all to hell yet, that means there's something else going on."

"What?"

He shook his head.

She didn't press. "How much cash?"

"Close to a mil."

"Do you know where it went?"

He shrugged, indicating that he probably did but didn't feel like sharing.

She sat back and watched him for a moment. "There's more than one leak in the Bank, isn't there?"

He nodded casually before blowing smoke from the side of his mouth.

"Can you give me any names?"

He shook his head. "There's only so much I'm willing to give for free."

She nodded. "I understand."

The session was over. They both knew it. Tom got up, crushing his cigarette in an ashtray hidden in the bar. But before he left for the back room, he turned to look at her again, "By now I would expect that you know this, but I suggest you be careful about advice and those who give it."

"Including yours?"

He shook his head, "We've known each other too long for lies."

She nodded and he was gone.

"Curious 'bout the dead banker, are you?" a voice oozed from her right. She turned. The man with the black-brimmed hat was sucking on the end of his cigar, staring at the amber liquid in his glass as the ice melted.

"It's not polite to eavesdrop," she muttered under her breath and regarded him warily.

He laughed, and the sound seemed to gurgle in his throat before hissing out his lips. "We're all thieves here 'rn't we?"

She said nothing.

"Trust me or not, I s'ill have 'eard o' your man."

"And what possible reason would you have to tell me anything?"

His shrug resembled a convulsion. "Let's just say I'm the 'nemy o' your 'nemy."

His words seemed to slip in and out of focus as he talked, his slight accent pronounced with the addition of alcohol. When he finally looked up, his eyes were the colour of slate blue tinged with red. "You're telling me you know of Evans?"

"O' course."

She was starting to suspect that the slurring was due almost entirely to alcohol.

"In fac', I know that they're meetin' here to-night."

"Who's they?"

"The people you were askin' 'bout."

"You know who's behind the leak?"

"Naw," he shook his head and returned his attention to the alcohol. "I jus' know that the people comin' to-night 'ave been talkin' 'bout Banks an' Evans."

"How do you know they're coming here tonight?"

"'Tey always come to-day."

Normally she wouldn't take the word of other thieves without some sort of evidence, but this man was very drunk. He would have to be very hard to be lying now. And her sleuthing mission seemed to be hitting more walls than channels. What harm could listening have?

'Plenty,' another part of her subconscious threw out.

She appreciated it's input, but ignored it all the same.

"I c'see you're a little suspicious, but 'tey buy me a drink every time somet'in' goes right."

"Why you?"

He smiled an ugly grin. "I'm ta' only one at ta' bar."

"I see." So he wasn't a thief. He was a nut. "But I thought they were your enemy."

His hideous grin widened. "I 'm. 'Tey just don't know who I 'm."

"And who would that be?"

"'Tis a secret. 'Sides, I'm more a' informat t'en anyt'in'."

"What does that even mean?"

"'T means I know naught but what'm paid t'know, and find what'm paid t'find."

"Were you paid to find me?"

"Naw," he took another sip of drink. "You were jus' lucky, 's'pose."

She nodded. "Then when are they coming?"

He looked up at her, "Ten o'clock."

"I see." She got up. "Thanks."

"Any time," he saluted her with his glass.

She nodded and quickly left the bar.

Outside, the air was fresh and clean. She drank it in, savoring the crispness and ignoring the cold that was already biting into her lungs and exposed hands. As she walked to her car, she wondered about the legitimacy of what she had just heard. The harm in coming to eavesdrop could be great, or it could be nonexistent. If it was a trap, that man played a very good drunk. Besides, there was no reason to silence her—yet.

And in any case, a bar was a bad place to stage an ambush. It was too tight. Numbers lost their advantage when they were constrained; in fact, their size generally became an encumbrance. If there was an intended attack outside of the bar, she'd cross that bridge when she came to it.

By the time she had reached her car, she had mostly justified her decision to take the advice of the drunk man, despite all better judgment. Her phone vibrated as she opened her door, and she flipped it open.

"Bones?"

"Yes?" she leaned against the door.

"Cam found something."

His news was the final straw that broke the proverbial camel's back.


	4. Crying Bloody Tears

_Chapter Four_

The stainless-steel table rolled out with a sound vaguely reminiscent of some faraway thunder's boom, the rim and unoccupied portions shining dully against the fluorescent lighting.

The body lying on top still looked relatively life-like, its flesh only partially disrupted in some of the more attractive places for scavenging animals to nose into. The chest cavity had been opened up, and considering Cam's reaction, a few organs seemed to be missing. However, the face appeared untouched, aside from the jagged cut that ran from one orbital bone to the other. But as Cam slowly wiped away the crimson stains, the man's old features began to emerge.

He had had a beak-like nose sloping down into flaring nostrils. Below that there were soft lips and a stubborn chin, the jawline neither strong nor weak. His hair was slightly overgrown, and in life it had formed a mess of swirling hair on his head. His eyes, though slit open, were a startling emerald. They were the kind one spotted across the room in a crowded, smoke-filled room. They were the only reason Brennan remembered him.

She had never known him. In fact, she doubted that they had ever spoken to each other. But he had met her eyes once, and she had been interested to note the color of his irises as she had sipped from a wine glass and waited for her payment. She had seen him a few other times around the bar, and sometimes she had even looked for him. Eyes like those held someone's interest. They had had a certain intensity to them—like one was being dissected without the aid of a scalpel. From her observations she knew he was an excellent con-man, because he always was around others of high and presumably similar caliber. He never looked kind, just perpetually annoyed.

She had never known his name.

Angela sucked in a breath from across the table. "God."

Cam nodded as she transferred one of the remaining organs to a scale for measurement, clipboard tucked under her arm.

"That's a message," Booth said as he averted his gaze. "Cutting open the eyes."

'Crying bloody tears,' Brennan thought but didn't voice it. It was one of the marks of betrayal.

"Please say that," Angela gestured, "happened after he was dead."

No. It hadn't.

"No," Cam said. "That much blood—he was alive."

"God," she said again.

Brennan leaned against a beam and stared at the place where eyes had once been without really seeing it. She wasn't upset about his death, but it was interesting, and it seemed improbable that this was a coincidence. If rumor in the bar was accurate—and it generally was—then it was unlikely that Evans was or would be the only fatality.

"How long has he been dead?" Booth asked.

"Eh...Maybe two, three days," Cam replied.

He nodded and shifted so that he could lean on a cabinet.

"What was his name?" Angela asked.

"Johnathon Reed," Booth replied.

"How did you get the ID so quickly?" Brennan spoke. "And how did you make the connection to Evans?"

Cam glanced up at her. "When he came in I thought that there was a possibility this was gang or mob related, so I ran his prints in case he was in the system. He was."

"What about the connection?"

Booth answered, "The FBI lab finished examining all of the money found in Evans' place. They found a few fingerprints, and when they ran them there was a hit on Reed."

"I see." She nodded and looked back down at the sliced eyes.

Cam spoke after removing another organ, "I may be in here a while, so you guys can leave if you want." She glanced at Booth, "I'll send you my results."

"No," he said, "I can stay in the lab until your finished."

She nodded.

Brennan replicated her head movement and turned, walking out.

Sam had said that there was a leak, but she had also said that operations seemed to have been hindered recently. There was apparently some missing cash, and her employees didn't know where it had gone. The papers that had been scattered on the Bank operator's desk were records of financial transactions, at Sam's suspicion was that when her checking finally hit its conclusion, she would discover that there was more money withdrawn than on record. Her actions were fueled by rumor, and her discoveries fed her belief in the rat. From the stories Brennan was hearing, she was inclined to agree.

Reed seemed to be only further proof of either mistrust or true betrayal. Brennan didn't know if the slit eyes were a symbol utilized only by hardened criminals, or it was some sort of trademark for local gangs, but she did know what it's presence meant if it had to do with the criminal world she knew. It was not a thought she particularly liked.

Sighing, she settled onto a bench outside of the entrance to the medico-legal lab and wrapped her arms around each other for warmth. Her first instinct had been to head outside to digest the information, but now she wasn't so sure that it had been wise.

To her surprise, another person dropped down next to her and she whipped up her head, her hands immediately flying apart.

"Relax, sweetie," a familiar voice said. "It's just me."

"Angela," her breath puffed out as white clouds and it reminded her of the cigarettes in the Thirty-First Charade. "What are you doing here?"

The artist rewrapped her scarf, flicking her hair closer around her neck in the same movement. "What are you doing here?"

"I asked first," Brennan countered.

She shrugged, "I followed you out."

"Why?"

"I was wondering why you were heading out here."

"How could you know I was walking outside?"

"Because I followed you." She held up a hand before Brennan could question further. "And let's stop this endless cycle of pointless questions."

She nodded and flushed a little, annoyed with herself for succumbing to such feeble stall tactics.

"So what's the problem, Brennan? You had a weird look on your face when you were staring at Reed."

"What?" her eyes shot up to meet Angela's.

"Well, Booth is the expert on facial expressions, but I'm not terrible at it myself."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that you looked _weird_ when you were looking at Reed. Like you recognized him."

"I see," her eyes slid back down.

"Brennan," she poked the ex-thief's arm and was grudgingly met with eye-contact once more. "There are a lot of different oaths and forms that you have to deal with before ever setting foot into a lab to work. There's a lot of questioning whenever suspicious behaviour surfaces. Now, I don't want to act like some sort of authoritarian figure, but as a friend I'd like to know if you were ever involved with Reed."

"What?" her eyebrow shot up. "With that slimy—" she remembered who she was talking to and shut her mouth. Dammit.

"So you do know him."

Dammit. Dammit. Dammit. Dammit.

"How involved were you?"

Almost involuntarily, her eyes closed. "I wasn't involved with him."

"Then how do you know him?"

"It's..." she searched for a term. "Complicated." The cliché felt wrong even as she said it.

"Then simplify it, please."

"You really want to know?" she finally met her eyes once more, suddenly feeling tired under her own masquerade.

"Honey," the artist touched her shoulder again in an effort to maintain the eye-contact. "I don't like the idea of you knowing Reed if he was involved with gang activity. I'm concerned. As a friend, I'd like to know."

"This is nothing," she laughed without the slightest trace of humour.

"What?"

She rose. "Let's...take a walk."

Angela blinked before getting up to stand beside her.

Brennan didn't speak until she had hit the final step to the grounds and was crunching through snow. "In his twenties, my father began stealing from local convenience stores and shops for small amounts of cash. I never got an explanation as to why he did it—in fact, I'm not even sure that he knows why himself. But eventually, he moved on to larger prey—banks. It was around that time that he met my mother.

"Mom had also apparently started out with petty thievery, her first job a pet store because she had needed food for her dog. She had met my father during one of his robberies, and, at least the way they told it, they had been bickering about who would get the share from the job as they had walked out the door. Two years later, they were married and robbing banks together."

Her eyes closed for a moment, but she continued talking, "The trouble began when they joined a syndicate to increase the rewards from the thefts. Because the syndicate was shielded by a number of corrupt cops, the further benefit was that they were likely to be protected from jail. However, the crew itself advocated violence, and their actions were often motivated by racism. There was a falling out, a string of murders, and my parents were forced to flee—my brother and I taken with them."

She inhaled and held the breath for a moment before exhaling, "Our names were changed, states of residency shifted, and we moved on. My parents settled and assumed non-illegal careers. We were lucky, I suppose, because I later found out that the men with the most connection to my parents were murdered before they could come after us.

"But it would seem that illegality runs in our blood, as it were," she smiled bitterly. "My brother, at the age of twenty-one, went to jail for a number of petty theft charges. He was incorrigible, and constantly drifted in and out of prison. Eventually he managed to earn himself the right for parole, and he's cleaned up a little. In fact, his parole is almost at an end."

Her shoes were beginning to feel wet, and she walked over to a nearby bench and dropped into it, Angela following suit. When she said nothing further, Angela prompted, "What about you?"

Brennan smiled bitterly once more, "I'm not sure I even know anymore." She leaned back, "I guess it was just like what happened to my parents. It started with a few petty thefts, but eventually evolved into large scale heists. Part of it may even have to do with my parents."

"Why?"

"Max and Ruth Keenan are pretty well-known names in the east coast syndicates."

"Keenan," she repeated thoughtfully. Her eyes widened. "You're..."

Her smile was almost acrid. "My real name is Joy Keenan, or it was before my parents assumed new identities. I only found out about the identity change less than a decade ago. But I've never felt a real connection to my first name, and those who do not have a connection to my work don't hear it."

"What is your work, exactly?"

"I am, or was, a thief, although I sometimes did some amateur espionage during my robberies. I know most of the major syndicates in the DC area, though I deal with only a handful. Thinking about it," she ran a hand through her hair. "I probably know just enough to be worth silencing if I openly defected."

"You said 'was.' " Angela seemed to be thinking to herself. "And you're helping Booth and the rest of us with this case...Are you a defector?"

"No. I'm not, of that much I'm certain. Although I did switch sides, secrets I uncover within the syndicates will never be passed on to the cops. Booth knows that, and I made sure he would not expect otherwise before I took part in the investigation. Anything I find, he will have to find external evidence of. If I became a rat, it wouldn't matter how friendly I was with the syndicates, I would have signed my death warrant."

"But you're safe now, aren't you?" the concern in Angela's voice shook her to the core. "I mean, your help isn't going to..." her voice trailed off.

She shrugged, "I never know how safe I'm going to be. In my business, one learns not take the next hour for granted." Seeing the fear in the artist's eyes, she hastily back-tracked, "But I don't think I'm in any more danger than usual as of the moment."

"Oh, that makes me feel so much better."

She blinked. "You mean even after hearing all of that, you don't hate me?"

"Why would I hate you?"

"Because I lied, and for all you know I manipulated you or put you in danger. Doesn't that matter?"

"Well, I admit I'm still a little stunned. Maybe it hasn't sunk in yet. But you've always been secretive about your past. Admittedly, this goes way beyond what I would've guessed, but I can't say I'm shocked."

Brennan said nothing.

"And besides, Booth obviously knows about this, and if he can be okay with it, I can be okay with it."

She still said nothing.

Angela watched her, "What's wrong?"

"Now that you know about me, I have to know what you're going to do."

"About what?"

"I'm a thief. I've probably got a bounty on my head. There are probably dozens of police that have caught my associates and want both me and any information I have to offer. Given all of that, if you decided to turn me in, I'll have to disappear."

"Sweetie," Angela patted her shoulder. "Look, I don't know how the criminal world operates, and sometimes I'm not even sure I understand how the legal system works, but obviously loyalty is only important until someone gets everything they need, and at that point everyone else is screwed over. But I'm not like that," her voice were firm but kind. "You've already proven yourself to be a good friend to not only me, but Jack, Zack, and Cam. And Booth, who has one of the strongest moral codes I've ever seen, obviously cares for you very much. That's enough for me."

"So what does that mean?"

"It means I'm not going to do anything but let you keep doing what you're doing."

"But why? I don't see how you benefit from this."

"I just told you, sweetie. You're my friend, and friends don't betray friends."

"Thank you." She wasn't sure what else to say.

"Don't mention it." Angela laughed, "I feel like I'm in some sort of spy novel."

"Yeah," she smiled, although the bitterness had not washed away entirely. "I do too."

The artist rose, "Now let's go back inside. I'm freezing."

Brennan nodded but spoke almost halfway back to the lab, "Angela?"

"Hm?" she glanced over.

"I have something else I'd like to tell you."

"You mean there's more?"

"Yes. I was the one who stole Hodgins' antiques a few months ago."

At this, Angela threw her head back and laughed.

"What?"

"Now that, sweetie, is funny."

"Why?"

"Jack's been frothing over those damn antiques since they were stolen, even when he got one of them back. And little does he know the thief is standing across from him racing beetles. Though honestly, sweetie," her voice lowered a notch, "From what I hear, you may end up paying back the cost for all of those things with how much money you fork over with each round."

Brennan grimaced, "Thanks a lot."

"Hey, it's what friends do."

"Apparently, I have a lot to learn."

"Don't worry. We'll be here every step of the way. But you'll have to do me one favor."

"And what's that?"

"Get a new beetle."

Brennan laughed. "Okay."

--

"Bones," Booth said eons after the ex thief had left him in the autopsy suite. "Cam's got cause of death."

Brennan glanced at Angela, who was poised over the pad for the Angelator, and the two got up simultaneously.

"Where did you disappear to anyway, Bones? I thought you'd be tripping over yourself to get closer to the dead guy."

"Eh," she shrugged and walked past him. "Bones not flesh, remember?"

"Isn't that what they call a one-track mind?"

She ribbed him, rolling her eyes, "Who's this mysterious 'they' ?"

"You know, 'they,' " he slung an arm over her shoulder, using his free hand in an all-encompassing gesture. "The experts."

"Experts in what, exactly?"

They stopped in front of Cam's suite, Angela standing behind them with raised brows and a smirk.

"People...the mind..." he continued his gesturing.

"You mean psychology?"

"Yes."

She rolled her eyes and said nothing further, walking into the autopsy suite before he could come up with another joke.

"Single gunshot wound to the forehead," Cam said without looking up from her clipboard. "The blood from the eyes covered it up, so that's why we didn't spot it immediately."

"Close range?" Booth asked, his tone professional once more.

She made a non-committal noise. "Long range."

"Were there any other marks of violence?" Brennan asked.

"No. Just the eyes and the bullet."

"That's violent enough," Angela said.

Hodgins walked in, "There wasn't much insect activity, but the trace exam looked like New York at New Year's."

Booth gave him a pointed look.

"Particulates from tobacco, several different types of clothing, plastics, saliva, urine, fecal matter..."

"Can we cut to the chase?" the agent asked with a note of exasperation.

"The man was a pig?" Angela guessed.

"No," Hodgins said patiently. "I think he was killed in a place that gets traffic from a lot of people, and not very hygienic ones at that."

"Like an alley?" Brennan said.

"Yeah. Possibly."

She nodded, thinking to herself.

Zack poked his head in, "Are you going to need me, Dr. Saroyan?"

Cam shook her head, "No. At this point, that would be unnecessary."

He nodded and disappeared.

"Well," the pathologist turned back to her small crowd, holding up a radial saw. "I am going to have to retrieve the bullet. So either you can watch or go have lunch, come back, and then escort it to the FBI lab for comparison."

"I'll take the second one, thanks," Angela said, already halfway out the door.

She grinned, "How about you, Booth?"

He grimaced, "I'm with Angela on this one." He tapped Brennan's shoulder. "Come on, Bones, lets go race beetles or something."

"I think Hodgins has to work," she pointed out.

"Thank God for that," he ushered her out. "So what now?"

"What do you mean?"

"You heard Cam. We should go out to lunch."

"Ooh," Angela said. "Where to?"

"Whoever said you're coming?"

Brennan poked him, "Be nice."

He grimaced again, "It just seems like wherever we go, the squints go."

"Hey, she's only one 'squint,' not several. And besides, she's an artist, not technically a squint."

Angela grinned, "That's right."

He sighed. "Fine. I guess the three of us are going out to lunch."

"Who's paying?" Brennan asked, her hand traveling to the inside pocket of her trench coat where she kept her wallet. "I don't think I have much cash on me."

"Well, Booth's a gentleman, isn't he?" Angela said evilly, tapping his shoulder. "You'll pay, won't you?"

"I should make you pay," he replied.

"Come on now." The two women simultaneously sped up their pace. "I'm in the mood for pasta."

"So am I," Brennan said.

"I know just the place."

Grinning, they stepped out the doors, leaving Booth to catch up a few moments later.

--

Lunch consisted of two plates of ravioli with butter-sauce, garlic, and cheese for the two females, and a hamburger for Booth. This, of course, had garnered a raised brow and smirk from Brennan, who had been vegetarian for over a decade. In response, he had questioned why she was okay with slicing and dicing dead people but not with eating meat. She had told him she would prefer to boil them. He had quickly lost his appetite. When the ex thief had noticed this, she teased him mercilessly and he, sulking, had finished his beef in silence.

When the waiter came around to ask about desserts, Brennan requested black tea, while Booth and Angela went for coffee. He made a comment under his breath at her order which she didn't catch, although she knew from the tone what he had meant. With an evil grin, she had retaliated by enlightening him on some of the additives found in beef. He had requested a change in subject. Angela suggested they stay off food. Booth had agreed and, setting both palms on the table, had suggested they discuss the case. Brennan nodded and spoke first.

"Now, I can't say I've actually seen the way in which Reed was murdered face-to-face, but I've heard of it." She reached for her tea and took a sip, swallowing slowly. "It's been called 'crying bloody tears.' It's done as a sort of analogy for begging forgiveness for some sort of crime against the syndicate. However, the fact that Reed was shot suggests that forgiveness was not granted, and an execution was deemed appropriate."

"Bones," Booth said, his eyes flicking to Angela and back again.

"What, Booth?"

"You know," he continued to make his eye movements.

Angela watched them with raised eyebrows.

"Oh," Brennan said after a few beats. "Oh, Booth, she knows."

"You told her?"

"Yeah. I decided to let someone else in on it."

"You make it sound like it's some kind of conspiracy."

"It's not. I just decided I didn't need to lie about my past to her anymore. It was a decision, though admittedly slightly impulsive."

"Fine," he leaned back. "Continue."

She opened her mouth.

"Hey, wait. Analogies? Suggests? Symbolic stuff in a murder? I thought you hated psychology."

"I do, but this isn't psychology. It's logic combined with experience. I have heard of this sort of thing before."

"I don't know if I like that."

"So, what do you want to do about it, Booth? It's not like you can just go back in time and change everything."

"Fine. Whatever. Go on." He gestured at her.

She raised an eyebrow but did so, "The only reason that Reed would have his eyes cut like that must be because he was suspected to have betrayed the syndicate in some way. Because he was also shot, logic would suggest that either the executioner knew he was guilty, or was strongly suspicious."

"Well, how do you know he wouldn't have killed Reed even without the evidence?"

She shook her head. "His eyes were useless after that sort of attack. Being blinded in such a way would be enough punishment for someone merely suspected of being a rat. For him to be killed as well means that he was as good as guilty."

"Or maybe someone didn't want him talking."

"Then why would he have slit his eyes?" She shook her head, "No. This was definitely not done by someone who was on par with Reed and afraid of a leak. It was done by someone affected by Reed's behaviour."

He nodded.

Brennan drained the last of her tea and set the mug on the table. "I think it would be best if you two go back to the lab, while I go check out some sources on my end." She got up. "Booth, I don't know if I'll see you again tonight, and if I don't then just go ahead and have dinner without me."

"Why? Where are you going?" he got up as well.

"I was told that tonight two people are meeting who have been talking about the Bank and Evans."

"By who?"

"A guy at the bar."

"A guy?" he repeated. "How well do you know him?"

"I don't know him. I just met him today."

"You're trusting the word of a guy you just met at a presumably seedy bar?" he said incredulously. "Bones, are you out of your mind?"

"No, at least, I don't think so."

He continued to stare at her.

"It's fine. If he was lying then I'll just leave."

"How do you know it's not a trap?"

"What possible reason would they have to capture me? I don't know anything."

"Maybe they'll think you're sticking your nose too far into other people's business."

"There you go with 'they' again."

He groaned. "I don't like this."

"Which was why I wasn't going to tell you," she started to walk toward the door.

He muttered something unintelligible under his breath.

"Sweetie," Angela stopped her as she walked out the door. "You'll be careful, right?"

"Of course," she tried to give her a reassuring look. "I'll see you tomorrow, probably."

The artist nodded and Brennan turned to leave.

"Bones," Booth stopped her.

"What?"

"I'll wait for you."

"Okay," she nodded and walked away.

--

The Bank looked the same as it had when she had last visited. 'Was that yesterday?' Brennan wondered to herself idly. 'Or was it the day before that?' She shrugged to herself, dredging the last of the tea in her cup, crushing the cellophane, and tossing it into a nearby waste bin. It missed and she walked over to grab it and slam it into the can.

She was annoyed. Sam had lied to her.

Not only that, but a large SUV had followed her from the restaurant.

She was very annoyed.

Setting her shoulders, she quickly clicked up to the double doors and yanked the handle. An unfamiliar guard immediately barred her path.

"Who are you?" he asked gruffly, his close-to-the-skull haircut revealing pieces of a long tattoo that snaked up and around his neck.

"None of your business, buzz-cut," she hissed.

"What did you just call me?"

"Buzz-cut," she repeated. "And I suggest you move. I have business with Sam."

"Oh, that is not going to happen," he said.

She was in no mood for teaching a puppy manners. Any experienced guard would not have been upset by her patronizing, though non-threatening, words. "I requested that you allow me passage." Normally, she would've been more patient, but her mood was growing fouler as her mind entertained thoughts of what would happen if Booth suddenly decided she needed assistance. Not only had the agent ignored her words of warning, but now a lowly puppy was arguing with her. "I will say it again, move."

"No."

Her lips curled up in a grim smile, anger beginning to warm her gut. "You have two choices now, buzz-cut," he flushed at the word. "One is that you move or try to stop me."

"My job is to prevent those without appointments from entering," his words sounded rehearsed.

"I don't think so."

"You don't, do you?"

"No. I don't."

He laid a hand on her wrist. "I am going to ask you nicely to explain yourself one more time."

"That's not nice, that's threatening. Hands off." She was seconds from causing a scene. Had he done as she asked, she would have refrained from taking her anger out on someone who was uninvolved.

But he didn't. He applied pressure and attempted to move her.

She planted her feet. "Big mistake."

"Wha—"

He never got the chance to finish his sentence before being thrown to the floor. Placing a boot over his neck she glared down at him. "Word of advice, buzz-cut: Don't get pissed off so easily; it gives opponents an advantage. You should also know to read anybody who walks in this door, and not just for personality. My poise would betray strength to anybody with the sense to look for it. And finally, you should know by now that people in our business don't like to give their names, nor make appointments. Ask for intention, and if that isn't answered, ask for help. I know this place has microphones."

She removed her boot and headed for the door that lead to Bank's waiting room. The handle had been pulled before she paused, hearing a click. Turning, she saw that her would-be attacker had drawn a gun.

Her eyebrows raised involuntarily. "A puppy with a gun? Sam must be nervous to do something like this."

"One more time, get out."

A corner of her lips twitched as her hand traveled into her pocket. "And what are you planning to do if I don't?" she challenged.

"I—"

"Joy," a voice from behind her interrupted. "I admit this was fun to watch on the security cameras, but when guns are drawn I pull the plug."

Turning, she was met with Sam's husband, Steve Powell.

"Mr. Potter, this is Joy Keenan, an old friend of Sam's," his voice was light but his eyes were hard as stone. "She doesn't come around often, but when she does she's allowed passage, no questions."

Buzz-cut glared at her but his gun was quickly pocketed.

Steve's expression hardened as much as his eyes already were and he stepped over to where Buzz-cut lay on the floor, kneeling to say something quietly in his ear. When he was done speaking, Buzz-cut's face was white and he humbly went to regain his position by the wall.

"Sorry about that, Joy," Steve said, stepping in front of her to head back into the main room. "Sam's been feeling a little antsy lately and she wanted to tighten security."

"By posting a puppy?"

He nodded, "But I explained to him what would happen if he attempted to reclaim his dignity by picking a fight with you."

She nodded and followed him inside, thinking that it was nice to have connections and a reputation, the latter of which she had been trying to avoid obtaining for many years. However, a woman with knowledge of both armed and unarmed fighting, as well as a short temper, inevitably garnered attention over the course of a decade. Now Brennan was comfortable, even proud of, her reputation, and whenever her mood was particularly foul she tended to live-up to it.

"So what did you want, Joy?" Steve broke into her thoughts. "Twice in less than a week—must be something on your mind."

"Business with your wife."

He nodded, and understood, asking no more questions. She liked that about Steve—he knew when to keep his mouth closed.

They parted at the door to Sam's office, and she entered without a word, closing the door behind her with only a slight slap. The head of the Bank looked up at the sound, and raised her eyebrows at the source.

"You're back already?" she asked mildly, her voice fatigued. "What do you have for me?"

Brennan watched her and asked quietly, "Why did you lie to me, Sam?"

"What?" the tiger eyes slid up.

She said nothing.

Sam sighed and leaned back, gesturing at the chair across from her. "Sit."

She did not budge from her position at the door.

"Come here," her voice was softer now, and she got up to sit at a chair across from the one she had offered.

Warily, Brennan took the indicated chair, staring at her long-ago partner with only mild irritation, her anger having been left with the unfortunate Buzz-cut. After a few beats of silence, she asked, "You _did_ decide to plug the leak, didn't you?"

"As I told you, not personally," Sam said, slowly reaching up and releasing her hair from its tie, leaning back.

"But you did send someone, didn't you?"

"No. Not a person. I contacted one of the distribution centers and requested someone look around for me."

"Don't you know who this person is?"

"No."

Brennan sighed, "The usual 'I can't know anything I do not ask about' ?"

"Yes."

She leaned back herself, running a hand through her hair. "Evans wasn't your leak."

"I suspected that."

"That's why you hired a hit-man."

"No," she said, suddenly sounding more alert. "I did not. I wanted the rat alive."

"I see."

"You found the rat, didn't you?" she said after a beat.

"I think so."

"And I gather that he is dead?"

She nodded.

"How do you know it's him?"

"I don't know, I just believe it is."

"Why?"

"His eyes were slit."

The tiger eyes hardened. "I have not been told that my leak was found."

"Who do you trust? A nameless assassin or an old business partner?"

Sam closed her eyes and exhaled. "I can't leave here, but the distribution center needs to be questioned."

The silence gave Brennan an idea of what was going on. "Are you asking me?"

"Would you?" her eyes opened again.

"It's part of my goose-chase anyway."

"Thank you."

She nodded.

Silence spread between them, both studying each other. Brennan was sure there was more in the picture, and godonlyknew what Sam was wondering about her. After a while, Brennan got up and asked which center the Bank leader had called upon. Sam said it was a small thrift store not far from the Thirty-First Charade, and assured her that she would call first to make sure they knew to expect her. Nodding, Brennan walked to the door. Her hand was on the knob when Sam spoke once more.

"What's got you so interested in this, Joy?"

"Call it a favour for an old business partner," she said shortly, and left the room.

As the door clicked shut behind her, Brennan sighed and walked over to one of the couches in the room, dropping into it and rubbing her eyes with a hand. Perhaps the release of her anger had been a bad idea; she could already feel the pounding behind her eyes.

Exhaling again, she concentrated on her breathing, listening to the slight puff as her chest contracted, and the delicate pull as her lungs filled once more. She heard a light from somewhere to her left hum and pop, but ignored it. The longer she sat still the more she seemed to hear, and from the office she had left she could hear the throbbing notes of a voice through walls, its meaning unintelligible.

She wanted to sit there for a long time, having no desire to confront the FBI agent who had followed her, not wanting to explain his potentially lethal decision once more. It was becoming redundant even to her, and the more rebellious and short-tempered side of her wanted nothing more than to let him get a taste of what happens when a cop decides to stick his nose where it should not be. Every other part of her was ashamed of that thought, and she knew it wasn't going to happen as long as she drew breath.

Groaning silently, she forced herself to her feet and walked outside, the puppy on guard saying nothing to her as she passed. When she reached her car after long minutes of walking, she opened the door and slid inside, her nose detecting the worn-out smell of old fabric and the staleness of coffee that had sat inside for many hours before being thrown out cold and mostly un-drunk.

Ignoring the knowledge that Booth would follow, she slowly turned the keys, listened as the engine roared to life, and slipped out of her space and onto the road, a grin twitching her lips as she thought of a plan.

--

Booth watched Brennan's car as it drove away, revving up the engine and following at a discreet distance. Likely, his...partner knew he was there, or at least suspected as much, but he was surprised that she had made no confrontational moves. Maybe he was finally starting to wear her down. If that was the case, then his plan would be in a place somewhere between impossible and improbable. It would take some hard selling to make it work, but he was going to try.

"Did you have enough time, Angela?" he asked the artist, who was fussing with the pile of wires in her hands.

"Yes," she muttered, her attention focused elsewhere.

"Why do you even have these anyway?"

She groaned and looked up at him, "Before I became a regular visitor to the estate, Hodgins and Zack used to play these really weird games that would require being able to listen to someone without them realizing you were doing it."

"Why?"

"I never asked, and never wanted to know. Hodgins got them from some weird spy shop out in the middle of nowhere which apparently caters to only the 'elite,' " she air-quoted word. "in paranoia."

"Yeah, I wouldn't want to know either."

She nodded and looked back down.

"I was surprised that Bones took long enough for you to be able to get from here to the lab and then back again."

"No, actually I went to the estate. It's not that far away and the traffic thins as you get close to it."

"That's handy."

"Yes."

He said nothing, focusing on trying to keep Brennan in sight. She definitely knew she was being followed, and was taking a lot of turns in an effort to lose him.

"Do you always drive like this?" Angela asked after a particularly sharp turn in which he had lost sight of Brennan for almost a full minute.

"Well, people always complain about how I drive, but I've survived, haven't I?"

"Have all of your passengers?"

"Most," he chuckled.

She glared.

"Yes."

She paused, and tapped the door with her nails. "So what's the plan?"

"Well, it's more like a hypothetical plan."

"Uh-huh," she raised her eyebrows. "And what does that mean?"

"It means I'm not sure if it's going to work or not."

"Well, tell me your _hypothetical_ plan," she stressed the word.

"Well," he seemed to be saying that a lot, "First we've got to corner Bones—"

"What?" she raised brows. "I'm already not liking this."

"Relax. We have to make sure she's not just going to roll her eyes and walk away, or start arguing."

"Okay."

He took that as a go ahead. "Then we have to convince her to wear that microphone."

Her eyebrows had disappeared into her hairline. "And why am I getting involved? I just brought the equipment."

"Exactly. You have to, you know, set up the equipment and...stuff."

"You said 'we' have to convince her."

"Well, you know, I was just hoping that you could help."

"Look, she's my friend, but—"

"No buts. Come on, Angela. We have to do this to make sure everything goes smoothly." His attention was now only half-focused on Brennan's car, and his mind didn't put up any warning bells when she turned a corner into a place that looked like it was jammed between two buildings. "I mean, what if something goes down that she can't handle?" He turned the corner and found himself in an alley. An alley that was narrow. And alley that did not have enough clearance for his car. An alley devoid of any sign of Brennan.

Shit.

Angela laughed, "Looks like she hoodwinked you, Booth."

He cursed again, wondering if he could squeeze through the space in front of him, ultimately deciding against it. Sighing, he slowly backed out of the alley, acknowledging the fact that Brennan had indeed outwitted him.

"Round one goes to Bones," he admitted with irritation. "But we'll find her again."

"Uh-huh," she said dubiously.

"We will."

"Right."

Muttering to himself, he pulled back onto the road and started to rebuild his plan.

--

Brennan laughed to herself as Booth fell prey to the alleyway, glad that she knew the neighbourhood so well, but did not pause for even a moment to gloat. She wanted to keep him out of harm's way, and the most effective means was to cut him off from contact with any possible danger. She'd be fine, he wouldn't. It was simple logic, and he was a cop—she didn't understand why he didn't see the situation as she did.

Putting Booth out of her mind, she quickly glanced around herself to get her bearings and made a few turns. The Thirty-First Charade was nearby, and the persons whom she was expecting—whoever they were—would not show up for another seven hours. She would need to burn that time somehow, but she figured that that was a problem she did not have to deal with yet.

After several minutes of uneventful driving, Brennan spotted her quarry. It was tiny, squat. The white painting that barely covered its old wood had turned grey in corners and yellow toward the center. There were a few plants stuck in those little boxes that are found hanging from quaint Victorian buildings, but these were in far worse condition. As she approached the building and parked, she noted that the contents of the flower boxes were dandelions and clovers. Sighing, she stepped out of the car and slammed the door.

Why is that all of the thievery centers were always run-down hell-holes? Why couldn't there be pretty flowers and fresh coats of paint and a lovely fireplace burning in the background? Why did they all have to look and smell of tobacco?

She stepped inside the place and her nose curled involuntarily for a brief moment.

Why is it that no one in these places ever seemed to bathe? What, they can't part with their protective coating of dirt?

"Can I help you, ma'am?" a voice called from the other side of a counter. A cigarette dangled from his pale red lips, and his jawline was non-existent, hidden by both a layer of grey fuzz and a roll of fat.

"Perhaps you can point me in the right direction," she said, not allowing her opinions to affect her voice. "I am here to speak to whomever spoke to Samantha Powell."

"Ginger, right?"

She raised a brow. "No, Joy Keenan. She called you a few minutes ago."

He nodded but said nothing.

She handed him a note and he studied it carefully. When he finally looked up once more, he spoke.

"I'll trust you on your word." He indicated the back. "Go around there, someone will find you."

She didn't like that there wasn't a specific person meeting her, but nodded and passed through the door to find a few green couches and one wicker chair. She settled onto the arm of one of the couches and waited.

Eventually a man ventured from a side door and called her in. He was dressed casually in a striped high-collared shirt which had not been tucked into dark blue jeans, a black belt looped close to his lean stomach. His hair was jet black, eyes matching the colour with a sort of hardness that Brennan had grown used to long ago.

"Here for a loan?" he asked without any formalities.

The Bank itself was really very similar to legal banks, even to the point where there were individual buildings that had and exchanged cash. It made it more difficult to trace to the money, though with that advantage came the fact that the more people involved, the more likely there was to be a rat. That was why men like the one sitting in front of Brennan existed.

"Or something else?" That was a euphemism.

Brennan shook her head. "Neither. I am here for information."

"On whose behalf?"

"Samantha Powell and myself."

"I see. And what is it you would like to know?"

"A few days ago she enlisted your services to plug a leak in the building, but had requested you find the party responsible and bring him to her. However, it would seem that our rat is dead."

"She called a favour as head of the DC Bank," he said coldly. "There was no payment, and therefore no guarantees."

Brennan leaned forward slightly and set palms on his desk, fingers entwined. "You run a business here, I understand that, however I am going to need to speak to the person who was chosen to act on Powell's wishes."

"Why?"

"I need to know what he knows."

"You're starting to sound like heat."

"Hear what you like, but there's more to our leak then just one person. I need his information."

He leaned back in his chair. "I'm afraid that we can't provide her."

"And why is that?"

"She disappeared."

"And who is this person?"

"The owner of our Bank center, Sylvia Cole."

Brennan sighed, "Then I'm going to need to speak with whomever spoke with her last."

His exhalation was as frustrated as her own. "That would be me."

She leaned back, folding her arms over her chest. "Tell me what you know."

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I will now take this oppurtunity to beg for reviews. :P

I have spent countless hours researching and writing. Normally I would expect the lack of interest, however, after getting so much attention for the prequel, I'm wondering what the problem is. Is it the long chapters? Lack of fluff? Some other reason? I would like to know, so please take a few moments and tell me either what's wrong or what's right. Don't bash, but just be straight. I'd appreciate it.


	5. Conspiracies

_Short little chapter, mostly because it's transitional. As of the moment, I have no idea of the length of the next one, but I expect it should be as long as usual._

_Chapter Five_

Brennan left the grimy old thrift store eons after the guy who had met with her had started talking. She neither knew nor cared to know either the name of the store or the name of the guy. She would find it again if she needed it. She would find him again if she needed him.

The clouds above were threatening more rain, but as of yet they had not delivered. The sidewalks and streets were unstained with water, and none of the trees were weighed down by moisture. In a space between a few buildings, the sky was stained pink and yellow from the slow descent of the sun, the spaces far above coloured violet and deep indigo. The sun was starting to set only at four thirty, the air beginning to bite.

Shrugging her coat a little tighter around herself, Brennan walked forward to get a better view of the sunset, captivated by the subtle swirls of clouds bellied by stains of crimson and the long strokes of blue slowly bleeding into the colour. A puff of icy wind blew her hair to the side and she reached up to tuck it behind her ears.

A nearby streetlight shuddered to life, buzzing dully. Her eyes flicked to it and when she looked back up she noted with some disappointment that the sky was fading. She hunted for the spot where the sun had been and saw the dying tones of yellow, its place filled by a darker void. Already, in places where the sun's light was gone, stars were present, and she could spot Orion's Belt in the dark.

Because of the inky shadows now surrounding both her and street, she failed to notice two figures as they approached stealthily from across the road, neither speaking. Later, she would mock them for such ridiculous actions, but he had maintained that he was in the right and that _she_ had acted worse.

"Bones," a voice startled her and she jumped, crashing into the concrete wall at her back. "Bones, jeez, it's all right."

Eyes wide, she stared into the gloom as two inky shapes took form a few feet away, her hand on her chest. "Booth?"

"Yeah."

"Sorry to scare you like that, sweetie," a voice she recognized as Angela's said.

Inhaling deeply, she closed her eyes and tried to calm her racing heart. "It's okay," she rasped, removing her other hand from the inside of her trench coat and crossing arms.

"Kinda jumpy, aren't ya, Bones?" Booth teased, poking her.

She rolled her eyes, though she doubted he saw the movement, then paused. "Wait. How did you find me?"

"Eh, you disappeared for a while, I will admit, but then I spotted your car—"

"No. I did," Angela pointed out. "He was busy being irritated about your alley trick." She lowered her voice. "And that was pretty funny by the way."

"Not the point," the agent continued. "Anyway, we spotted the car and waited for you to come out."

Brennan inhaled, letting the breath out very slowly. "I'm sorry for not being impressed by your observational skills, but I feel I should remind you both that I wished to make this trip alone." She began walking in the direction of her car.

"And I told you I didn't like that idea," Booth said, barring her path.

"I don't particularly care," she brushed past him.

"Hey," he took hold of her coat and pulled. "Hold it, Bones."

She turned, her back now up against the streetlight she had spotted earlier. "What?" she glared at him. "What is it?"

"I want to talk to you."

"If you can ignore my advice, I have the right to ignore yours."

"I didn't ignored it. I stayed out of the way."

Her hands tightened their grip on her arms. "I, a petty thief, noticed immediately that you were following me. What do you think anyone with worse intentions would think if they noticed?"

He said nothing.

"You see, you have not thought this through all that well. In fact, you shouldn't be talking to me at all in this neighbourhood. Approaching me like you did could get all three of us killed. Don't you understand that?"

He remained silent.

She continued to vent, "I am not in any special danger simply investigating this. I have an excellent reason to do so. A reason that has nothing to do with the legal system. Your presence, however, is the risk. I've told you this."

Nothing.

Sighing, she laid her head back on the pole behind her. "I am not interested in fighting, Booth. I'm just trying to ensure your safety."

"Come on, sweetie," a voice by her right ear said, its owner gently pushing her shoulder. "Let's talk in the car."

Silently, she followed them, hands dug into her pockets. She was not dressed for this weather. She was not in the mood for a conversation about her work. There had been too much of that today already.

When they reached the car, Brennan automatically slipped into the passenger's seat, while Booth went to the driver's side, and Angela took the back. Once they were all settled, Booth spoke.

"I appreciate your side of this, Bones, I really do," he said. "But I'm also looking out for you. If we're both looking to protect each other, then we should compromise somewhere in the middle."

"And how do you suggest we do that?"

He glanced back at Angela, and the artist reached into her pocket, produced something, and held it out. Warily, Brennan took it.

It appeared to be some sort of tiny transmission unit, a fuzzy microphone on one end and a clip on the other. The second part to it was just a small box with a few wires poking out of it. She looked up and waited for an explanation.

"Angela here can hook it up to the car speakers and we can listen in on your conversation with the bad guys."

"What possible use could this serve?"

He appeared to have already thought of an answer, "When we're in court, we'll have proof of your existence and possible evidence against the defense, since obviously you won't want to make an actual appearance."

She waited.

"And we can tell if you need any help."

"Oh no," she held up a hand. "If anything happens, no interference. You want a compromise? Fine, listen in. But the moment you step in there and help me, it's all over. For both of us."

"Come on, Bones," he looked around desperately. "Angela, say something."

"No," she said, shaking her head. "I'm not getting involved."

He sighed and turned back to Brennan, "I think you're underestimating my acting abilities."

She raised her eyebrows. "These are not your run-of-the-mills criminals, Booth. These are criminals with decades of experience. Most of these people have never taken drugs and only drink lightly. They have clear minds and sharp eyes. You're underestimating _them._"

"I'd be fine."

"I have more confidence in their ruthlessness than in your acting."

He looked slightly hurt for a moment.

"And you forget," she smiled thinly. "I am also pretty good with a gun."

He rolled his eyes.

"Besides, this is only a meeting. I doubt anything will actually happen."

"What makes you think that?"

"Because I will merely be discreetly eavesdropping."

"Discreetly?" he groaned.

"Yes."

"Fine, then we'll be collecting evidence. You happy now?"

"Not particularly."

"Why?"

"I have about five hours to wait until the meeting."

"Then spend them with us."

"No. I need to follow up on a lead."

"Wait. You've got a lead? On who?"

"Whom," she corrected automatically. "Reed."

"You know who killed him?"

"I believe so."

"Then let's go get him instead of—"

"Nope. First of all, where would you claim to have gotten the information leading to the arrest?"

"And second of all?" he was starting to look annoyed.

"Second of all, she disappeared."

"That's just great."

"It seems to happen a lot, doesn't it?"

"Too often," he groaned again.

"So I am going to go the bar, and..."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, Bones," he cut in. "You agreed to put on the microphone, right?"

"I don't remember doing so."

"Whatever, you might as well have."

She glared at him.

"Please, Bones? I promise no interfering."

She said nothing for a while longer before grudgingly attaching it to the inside pocket of her coat.

"Do you know how to turn it on?" Angela spoke for the first time in a while.

"Yes," Brennan said. "I saw the power switch."

"Good."

"What's the life on this thing?"

"Should be more than enough. I put in the heavy-duty batteries that Hodgins specially buys."

"Okay," she nodded. "So I'll see you later."

"But we'll be listening," Booth reminded her.

She rolled her eyes, hopped out of the car, and left them there.

--

Five hours later, Booth leaned back in his car seat, a coffee cup in hand. It had to have been his tenth by now. His dinner was in a trash bag stuffed into the car door.

"God this is boring," Angela said. "And Brennan hasn't turned on the speaker system yet."

"She's probably just screwing with us," he said with annoyance, the taste of stale coffee in his mouth.

"Or saving us from listening to silence," she pointed out, rubbing her hands with a cloth.

"What are you doing anyway?" he asked again.

"Drawing," she replied again.

"What?" this must've been the thousandth time he asked.

"This time, the building over there." She pointed to the bar Brennan had entered a millennium ago.

"Who are those little people around it?"

"Well, that's Ernie, a bank robber from Illinois," she pointed to the bald man opening the door. "And the Slim Jim from Iowa," she pointed to a guy sitting on a curb smoking a cigar. "And that's Timmy," she pointed to a dog, who was sleeping by a fire-hydrant.

"Why is the dog named Timmy?"

"Because the owner's an idiot," she said it as if it was the obvious thing in the entire universe.

"Oh." He pointed to another guy, a shadowy one who was sitting on a stairway near the bar. "Who's that?"

"Paul Rogers," she said. "He makes counterfeit money."

"I see," he said and clucked his tongue. "God I hate stake-outs."

"Brennan did suggest we not bother."

"I'm not giving her the satisfaction."

"Now I'm starting to wonder if you're doing this out of pride."

"Could be."

"Ugh. Men," she said and went back to scribbling.

"I don't know how you can draw in the dark."

"My eyes adjusted. And there's a streetlight over there," she pointed.

"Ugh," he muttered and said nothing more.

Angela had just began a new drawing when the speakers crackled to life. Their eyes flew up.

"So y'came 'ter all," a voice said, its owner obviously extremely woozy. "How 'ond'ful."

"Yes," the cool voice of Temperance Brennan replied. "I hope you remembered your dates well."

"I 'id, I 'id, I swar it." He sounded vaguely like Dudley Moore when he was acting as a drunk.

"Have you been here all day?"

"Naw. I lef' for a li'l while but came back for t'drink."

"Don't you think you've had enough?"

"C'never 'ave too much, da'ling."

"You've been drinking for the past several hours."

"B'watchin' me 'ave you?"

"Not much else to do in here."

"'see. Well, 't'would 'ppear t'people you were lookin' for a'here."

The volume increased suddenly, and Booth could now hear not only background noise, but the slight sound of Brennan's breathing.

"These are amazing," he whispered to Angela.

She nodded, but said nothing, her eyes riveted to the speaker system.

"Shit," Brennan's voice hissed.

"Joy," a silky voice said. "I'm surprised to see you here this late at night."

"So am I."

"Still looking for information on your dead banker?"

"In a manner of speaking," she replied.

There was a rustle of fabric and silence for a few long moments.

"What's he doing here?" Brennan finally asked.

"We were coming to discuss a deal."

"What kind of deal?"

"Import/export."

"Of what?"

There was a pause. "Cash." This voice was new, throaty and yet slimy, as if the words would stick to the receiver before slowly sliding off.

"Really?" Brennan's voice curled up. "How much are we talking?"

"A lot."

The first man spoke once more. "Are you interested?"

"Depending on what you tell me."

"This is sort of need-to-know information."

"Is that some sort of veiled threat?"

"Could be," the second voice said.

"And why is that? You know I don't work with cops." Booth winced.

"Call it a conflict of interests."

"You're the one who pointed me toward Powell." Her voice lowered. "It's almost as if you wanted me to find out."

"So you know?"

Silence.

"Well, are you interested?"

"I'd like to hear your side first."

"Problem is, we need you, Joy."

"For what, exactly?"

Pause. The second voice broke it. "Our guy is dead."

"Evans or..." Brennan paused for a moment. "Reed?"

"So you do know about him." the first voice said.

"Just enough. I connected the dots."

"You have a history of keeping information close to the vest, even with those who trust you. I understand you also don't take bribes?"

"Never."

"I've also worked with you. You're pretty straight."

"What's the self-evaluation for?"

"Mostly for him."

"Heard enough?" she asked.

"Yes," the second voice said.

"So tell me about the scheme."

There was a long pause.

The first voice started, "Reed was providing us with cash directly from the Bank, and we were investing it in our own places to make cash."

"Evans provided the investments?"

"You got it. He made money, we made money; it worked."

"Until he died."

"Yes and no. We were still making money off the investments, which look legal, but we just couldn't make anymore."

"Only someone went and whacked Reed," the second voice snarled.

Booth tensed.

"That's where you could come in, Joy," the first voice said. "Just get a hold of the cash and get it to us."

"What's my motivation?"

"A cut of the profits."

"You know money isn't my goal."

"You got your information; how about some return on our investment?"

"I'm looking for the murderer, not simply information."

"Why do you even care? There's no personal profit to you."

"No, but it's interesting, and I like interesting things."

"What? You're getting bored in retirement?"

"Something like that."

An exhalation.

"Look," Brennan said, her voice flat. "Your intention by giving me that information was obviously to try to draw me in. But why? You knew I wouldn't be interested. I'm a thief, not a launderer."

"Exactly."

Pause. "No. Security's way too tight."

"And you're one of the best in DC."

"You've seen security in that place personally. Stealing from a syndicate. Have you lost your minds?"

"It was his plan," the second voice muttered.

"Fine. Only you are insane."

Nothing.

"How the hell did Reed get the money?"

"He worked with it directly."

"In case you didn't know, I don't work for the Bank."

"But you know Powell."

"You said it yourself. I don't manipulate people."

"You could. I'm sure you're quite skilled at it."

"I am not about to swindle a swindler."

"Reed left a contact at the Bank. With some pressure, he could crack."

"And what would he do?"

"Perhaps knock out security for a while. Provide the codes."

"And how would I even get to the money? You know how the lock system works."

"We're thieves too, lest you forget. It would be quite the heist."

She said nothing for a long time. Then, "How would we know that all of this would remain under wraps?"

"Oh my god," Angela said. "She's actually thinking about it!"

"Shh," Booth said.

"...promises."

"Then why would I possibly be interested?"

"We just need enough cash to leave permanently. You could get enough to leave as well."

"I'm not interested in leaving DC."

"Why? What's here?"

"That's irrelevant. I have no interest in leaving."

"It's just us here."

"You know Tom is listening. People at the Bank have enough money to buy anything from him."

Silence.

"It's a suicide mission, and you know it. I think you're money-crazed. That's what happens when you're in this business too long. Stick to easier jobs. You're a fence; you've obviously lost the gall for thievery, let alone large-scale heists."

"Easy, Bones," Booth muttered.

"Then what do you suggest?"

"Drop it. I don't know how much you're currently making from your investments, but I imagine it's enough." She exhaled. "What you said about me was true, but you didn't mention that I prefer to play it safe when possible. I wouldn't mind a job, but this is too big. We would all end up like Reed."

Booth winced at the image.

"There are smaller money-holders."

"What?" Brennan said.

The second voice continued, "Places that hold less cash. They're aren't guarded as heavily."

"No," her voice was firm. "I would need a lot more motivation than you are offering."

"Such as?"

"Look, in case you didn't realize it, my life is on the table now, as well as both of yours. You would have to more than match my life and have some guarantee that we wouldn't be discovered."

"If Tom was convinced to keep his mouth shut?"

"And how would you do that?"

"Leverage."

"You'd be speaking a little more sensibly then."

"So you are interested, Joy?" the first voice cooed.

She did not reply.

"You're an adrenaline-junkie just like us. You miss the thievery."

"What's your point?"

"If we did set up to your liking, you would do it?"

Silence. Both the artist and the FBI agent in the car were holding their breath.

There was an inhalation, a click, and the line went dead.


	6. Workaholics

_Chapter Six_

"Shit!" Booth hissed, his fist already banging onto the dash in an effort to revive his lost connection with Brennan. "Shit!" he said again for emphasis.

Angela's breath was still tight in her chest, and his sudden movement had made her start. "Booth," she said after a moment. "Calm down."

He slowly removed his hands from the dash and placed them over the wheel, where they tightened.

Angela turned back to look out the window, her mind whirling. In a day she'd gone from a lab that solved crimes to a car where she had listened to a friend become enticed with the idea of grand larceny. Perhaps stake-outs weren't as wonderful and exciting as television programs and books made them out to be. Mostly she was just drained.

A figure emerged from the bar, its shoulders supporting a staggering second figure. Booth prodded her, and the two of them sank in their seats to watch from the bottom corners of their windows. Reaching up, the artist lowered her window a crack.

"'T'anks for t'help," a voice drifted in. It was very loud.

"Where are you planning on going?" a voice she recognized as Brennan's asked. "It would be irresponsible to let you drive in your condition."

"I got a frien' oo'd drive m'home."

"And where is this friend, exactly?"

"A ways."

"Then perhaps I should walk with you."

He laughed, a sound that was vaguely reminiscent of two cogs in a piece of heavy machinery grinding together. "I'm o-kay, 'iss."

"Are you sure about that?"

"'Course," he said, slowly getting off of her shoulder and taking a few steps forward. "See? 'Can walk, can't I?"

"Barely."

"Don't trouble y'self o'er a bum like me."

"You sure you can handle it?"

He raised a hand in a wobbly solute. "'Course, 'iss."

"I'll trust you then."

"Not t'wisest choice, but 'kay." He turned and began walking away.

"Thanks for your help," she said.

He grunted. "Yours s'well."

Hands in pockets, Brennan stood watching him for a while, the light behind her turning her into a mere silhouette and exposing her breath as it burst out at regular intervals. When the drunk was apparently out of sight, she turned and began walking in the direction of the SUV.

"Bones," Booth said loudly the moment she opened the door. "What the hell were you thinking?"

"Hm?" the thief said. "What was I thinking about what?"

"You know what," he growled. "You're worried about me and you're planning to rob a syndicate."

"Yes, that," Brennan said. Angela noticed a feral gleam in her eyes. "Well, this is not the best place to discuss this. Go to—"

"Who, whoa," he held up a hand. "Who's to say you're not going to run to some other bar and plan another heist?"

Her voice lowered, "Trust goes both ways, Booth. You expect me to trust you, you must also trust me." Abruptly, she removed her head from his door, "Follow me." The door slammed shut.

Angela watched as he glared at hole into the thief's back and wondered at the constant battles for control. Booth liked to have things go as he wished them to, but Brennan was resisting all attempts for control, instead prodding him into the position she wanted him to be in. However, it would seem the agent was just as unwilling to submit as she was.

Grumbling to himself, Booth pulled the car into gear and watched Brennan's car blink to life.

"Meet me at the Diner in ten minutes," her voice suddenly crackled from the speakers. "Don't follow in the direction I'm going. It'll attract attention." A click and she was gone.

"Ugh," Booth muttered in disgust. "What makes her so confident I'll do what she says, huh?" glancing behind himself, he pulled out in the opposite direction that the thief had already disappeared to.

Angela said nothing, assuming it was a rhetorical question.

Ten minutes later, just as requested, Booth and Angela arrived at the Diner. Brennan was sitting at one of the tables, a mug in hand as she sipped steaming liquid. She set it down when she noticed them and waited until they had settled across from her.

"Start talking," Booth said.

She raised an eyebrow.

"Please."

Her brows fell as she took a sip of her drink, creating a small crease in her forehead. Booth stared at that spot until the cup lowered once more. "That was Paul Bishop and Scar, a few former associates."

"Aren't they all former associates?"

She ignored him, "I was surprised that Bishop was interested in something so suicidal, but it didn't surprise me that Scar was."

"You were interested too, Bones."

She gave him another pointed look before moving on, "Bishop's probably just being manipulated. I think Scar's the real one pulling the strings behind all of this."

"Who is that?" Angela asked. "And what's with the weird nickname?"

Brennan fixed grey eyes on her, "I don't know. Around there, names are just handles, things to refer to people by. We're not exactly in the phone book and people find us if they need us, but not for any other reason. He could've chosen the name, or some genius who's met him did."

"But why Scar?"

"A long time ago a cokehead slashed his face open from forehead to cheekbone. It never healed completely."

"Oh."

Brennan nodded. "I won't repeat what you guys heard, but now I've got a new suspicion to check up on."

"Bones, right now I don't really care what you think. I'm more interested in Scar's offer."

"It was Bishop who wanted me in the first place."

"Not the point."

She exhaled. "Well, I agreed, but—"

"What?" Booth cut in, his voice raising. Several people glanced at him and he lowered his volume once more. "Why would you go and do something like that?"

"But," she said again, more forcefully. "I've got a plan."

"Oh god," he leaned back. "She's got a plan," he muttered to himself, looking up. "You hear that? She's got a plan."

"Yeah, I know. I just said that," Brennan said, her voice now becoming annoyed. "I think I can get all of us out of this case unscathed and undiscovered."

"You can?" Angela said.

"Yes. Not easily, and not without some risk, but if all goes as it should, I should uncover two murderers while remaining undiscovered myself."

"But to who?" Booth asked.

"Whom," Brennan corrected. "And that's where there's a slight problem."

"Of course there is."

She ignored him again, "Evans and Reed were killed due to internal politics in the syndicate, therefore it's a problem that the syndicate must resolve itself. All of the evidence for their killers belongs to people within or connected to the syndicate." She stopped.

"You're saying we should drop the case," Booth said slowly.

"Yes. It cannot be solved or prosecuted without direct cooperation from the syndicate, and that will never happen."

"What about..." Angela started to say, but her voice trailed off.

"Don't ask me," Brennan said. "I can't do it."

She nodded.

"I don't know how we can explain this to Cam, but I could come up with something. Maybe just tell her the reason."

"Don't worry about it," Booth said. "I'll explain."

"Thanks."

Silence. After a few moments, a waitress appeared.

"Would you three like anything?" she asked.

Brennan shook her head, "Just the tea's fine. Thank you."

The waitress looked at Booth and Angela.

"Slice of whatever pie you've got," he said. "And a coffee."

"Same as him," Angela said.

She nodded and departed.

"Nice that she waited for us to stop talking," Brennan remarked.

"We come here a lot to discuss cases," Angela said.

"In low voices, I imagine?"

"Oh yeah," Booth said. "Zack is so quiet I can barely hear him."

"And you're too loud," Angela reminded him.

"Yeah, I got that from all of the shushing from the peanut galleries."

"Am I one of those peanut galleries?"

"Not necessarily."

She raised both eyebrows.

A plate was placed in front of him, followed by one for her.

"Pie," he said. "Pie is good. Everybody likes pie." He quickly forked a piece and swallowed it. "Mm. Good."

"Nice save," she remarked before cutting her own piece and glancing up at Brennan, "Aren't you going to have a piece?"

"I don't like pie," she replied.

"Just fruit pies," Booth said.

"Does it matter?"

"Hey, you insist on correcting me, so I'm going to do it to you."

"I sense that we're hitting a bad area of conversation."

"You think?" Angela said.

Booth glared at them both before turning his full attention back to Brennan, who was casually sipping her tea. "But you know, Bones, one thing still bothers me."

"And what would that be?"

"Why did you disconnect the line while you were talking to Bishop?"

"I didn't want you to freak out when I agreed."

"That's it?"

She said nothing but quickly took another sip of tea.

"No it's not," he went on.

"Maybe it isn't."

"Then what is the full reason?"

"I wasn't sure if we would be discussing the place."

"And why wouldn't you want me to hear it?"

"As the calvary, I would expect you to be keeping watch over the place if you knew where it would be."

"How do you know?"

She gave him a look, "You insisted on following me to the bar, where nothing happened."

"Right. Nothing."

"...Even went as far as to make me wear a wire. How am I to know you wouldn't attempt the same thing at a robbery location?"

He said nothing.

"See, that tells me it was the right decision."

He scoffed but said nothing more.

"However, it seems that neither of them were prepared to stage a robbery immediately, so I''ll have to wait a few days before anything becomes concrete."

"Well, what do we do while we wait?"

She gave him a sharp look.

"Sorry. What will we do while _you_ wait?"

"That I do not know," she said and sipped her tea once more.

"We'll figure something out."

She grunted in agreement.

--

"Myow."

Brennan paused, the door already half-shut behind her. "Good evening, Faye."

"Myow," Faye said, padding up to her and laying both forepaws on her calves in a deep stretch. "Myow."

"Myow to you too."

The cat followed her as she walked to the kitchen and draped her coat over a chair, leaping onto the counter. "Myow."

Brennan ran a hand over her spine and she started purring. "What's got you so affectionate?" she asked, glancing down at Faye's dish. Mostly full. "Not food." Water? Nope. "Not water." She walked over to her couch and dropped into it, laying full out and propping her legs over the arms.

Faye leaped onto her stomach.

"Oof," she exhaled and stroked the cat, rubbing her behind her ears while her other hand tucked loose hair behind her own ear. "I know, it's nice to be home, and it's nice to see you."

Faye butted her chin and rolled over.

Laughing, Brennan reached for one of her white paws and brought it to her lips. The cat wriggled in protest to the kiss, but flicked her tail madly.

"I believe Booth will be here shortly," the thief informed her. "I think he's aware that I have yet to eat."

She was regarded with round emerald eyes.

"Or maybe he just wants to ensure that I won't run off with a gang of thieves in the middle of the night." She absently stroked a white patch on Faye's head. "Though I am sorry that he had to listen to that conversation between Bishop and I."

The cat curled up on her chest, head tucked under her chin.

"He must've thought he was at risk of losing me," she said, wrapping her arms around the mass of fur, and sighed. "He still doesn't trust me." Pausing, she nuzzled Faye closer. "Though I still feel lousy. What do you think?"

A muffled "Myow" hit her neck.

"You're right," she agreed.

She felt something sharp dig into her collarbone.

"Okay, I'll stop talking."

Slowly, the claws retracted and Brennan softly exhaled.

They sat like that for awhile, and she was just beginning to fall into a doze when a sound broke through the relative silence.

"Bones?"

Mentally, she groaned. She liked Booth's company, perhaps even enjoyed it, even when he was being insufferable. And although his constant pestering and assurances were annoying, part of her found it nice that he cared. However, she was tired, Faye was not about to move, and she was more or less paralyzed. She didn't even feel hungry.

"Bones?"

She wondered what she should say. It would be rude to send him away, and part of her wanted him there anyway. That she wasn't hungry? He wouldn't buy that. She could say she had eaten in the bar, but that thought made her cringe.

"Bones? Are you there?"

She knew she ought to say something, but it would be taking her life into her hands to shout with Faye so close to her neck. She wondered vaguely if her necklace would be a good shield, but decided that it wouldn't.

"Bones? Bones? Are you alright? Don't ignore me like this." Pause. "Bones!"

"I'm fine, Booth," she shouted, moving her jaw as little as possible.

Faye shifted.

"Jeez, Bones. Could you reply when I call you?"

"Well, it's a little difficult to talk right now."

"Why? Are you alright?"

"I'm fine. Faye's under my jaw."

"Then why not move her?"

"You wouldn't ask that if you were in my position." She could feel pressure on her chest again.

"You know for a thief you're pretty soft with that cat."

"Get a cat and then we'll talk."

"Why do we have to yell like this through the door?"

"I can't really get up right now."

"Don't you have a spare key out here?"

"No."

There was a long pause. "Can you get up yet?"

She opened her mouth but was interrupted by the movement of Faye, whose spine suddenly stiffened as she dug her nails into Brennan's flesh. Restraining a yelp, the ex thief watched as Faye hopped onto a higher vantage point on the couch.

With a groan, Brennan got up and stretched herself. The vertebrae in her back crunched, relieving whatever tension had been stored there. Walking to the door, she finally opened it to reveal Booth laid out in the door frame, his hands hidden in the folds of his long jacket.

"Sorry," she said.

"No problem," he replied, rising with slight difficulty and giving her a peck on the cheek.

She allowed him entry but saw no bags as he stepped inside. "No food?" she asked.

"Not this time. I figured you had things left here. Why?" he turned and regarded her, absently stroking Faye at her command. "Are you hungry?"

"Not particularly."

"You sure?" he looked at her closely.

"Yes, I'm sure." She walked over to her couch and dropped back into it.

He followed her, noting that she was taking up the whole couch. "You didn't leave much space for me, Bones."

"I believe I didn't leave you any space, Booth."

"You didn't." He began removing her shoes.

"Then why wouldn't you just say that?"

"It was a subtle suggestion." He took off one boot, as well as its sock, and started on the other.

"To do...what?"

"Scoot over." With both boots and socks off, he pressed his fingers into her feet and she let out a groan.

"I see," she said.

"But I can stay here for a little longer," he smiled at her.

"You can, can you?" she closed her eyes.

"Oh, yes, Bones. All night, if you want."

"I'm not that cruel."

"Naw. I'd sit on the cold, hard ground for as long as you like."

"It's carpet," she replied.

He massaged her soles. "Maybe you could stop with the quips?"

Another groan hissed from her lips, "No."

"Why not?" he rubbed her arch in slow, careful circles.

"It...comes without prompting."

"That so?" he applied more pressure.

"Yes," she hissed.

"Well, just for me, can we cut down a little?"

"I'll try."

He pressed more firmly.

"Yes," she said, her eyes opening.

He grinned at her.

She laid her head back on the couch and closed her eyes again.

His hands traveled up to her calves, massaging them.

"Mm."

He gently lifted her legs and slid underneath to get to the couch.

"Had enough of the cold, hard ground?" she asked.

"It's carpet," he said.

"I've heard."

His fingers lightly tapped her knees. "Was it your own voice that told you, Bones?"

"May have been."

"What happened to the agreement to stop quipping?"

"I must've forgotten. And besides, you started it."

"Did not."

"You responded. What, you're allowed to quip and not me?"

"Exactly."

"I'm not sure I like that."

"Gotta learn some compromise, Bones."

"I do, do I?"

"Oh yes." He suddenly lifted her into the air and placed her on his lap, his arms snaking around her shoulders.

She looked at him, "And what if I don't want to?"

"Eh, we'll work around that." He pulled her closer to him.

"Really now?"

"Oh yeah," he silenced any possible reply with a kiss. "Better believe it," he said when they came up for air. He kissed her again and it deepened, sending them both onto the couch in a heap.

"Why do I have the feeling you're trying to prevent me from speaking?" she asked.

Unexpectedly, he lifted her up, one arm tucked under her knees and the other around her shoulders. She squealed in protest. "Hey!"

He grinned, "Maybe I am." Still grinning, he got up and carried her off.

"You can't get away with that forever, you know!"

"Wanna bet?"

She grinned back at him, "Please."

--

_BeepBeepBeepBeepBeepBeepBeepBeepBeepBeepBeepBeepBeepBeepBeepBeepBeepBeep._

"Bones," a voice groaned. "Bones."

_BeepBeepBeepBeepBeepBeepBeepBeepBeepBeepBeepBeepBeepBeepBeepBeepBeepBeep._

"Bones."

"What, Booth?" she said groggily. Her ears registered the secondary sound shrilling a few inches away. "Oh."

_BeepBeepBeepBeepBeepBeepBeepBeepBe—_

She slapped it off and fell back into her pillow, closing her eyes again, sleep having already claimed her.

"Bones?" his voice broke through. It sounded as if it was coming from an old transmission unit, fading in and out of focus. "I can't sleep anymore."

She mumbled something and flipped over, eyes still closed.

"Why was that thing even on?"

His meaning wasn't registering. "What?" she managed to say.

"The clock. The alarm. You planning on going somewhere?"

"Going where?" she was slowly regaining consciousness.

"I guess that answers my question."

"What question?" she reached up and rubbed her eyes.

He sighed, "Nevermind."

"Okay," her hands slowly dropped and relaxed.

"How can you sleep after all that noise?"

"I can sleep anywhere," she mumbled.

"I guess I can too, but not right now."

"Why?"

"You ask a lot of questions for being half-asleep, Bones."

"I'm still trying to get my bearings," she said, turning in the direction of his voice.

"And you can use big words."

" 'Bearings' is not a big word, Booth."

"Now you're quipping."

Her hand slid from the pillow until she felt his arm and then hit him weakly.

"Violence. One more thing and I'll be impressed."

"What can I say? I have many talents."

"Apparently."

She did not reply.

"Bones?" he prodded her. "Bones?" she groaned. "Come on, Bones. It's not fair that you get to sleep and I don't."

"Didn't your mother ever inform you that life wasn't fair? Mine did."

"I wasn't listening that day."

"Too bad for you. You may just have to learn that lesson with me."

He said nothing, and she began to drift off again.

That didn't last long. "Bones?" he continued poking her. "Boooonnnneeesss."

"What?" she snarled.

"Ooh. Scary, Bones."

Had her eyes been open, she would've rolled them. Instead, she went mute.

There was a sudden _thwump_ on the edge of the bed, and she could feel the mattress compress as four small pressure points made their way towards her. In moments, two paws were pressing into her back, and she felt something furry on her neck.

"Come on. Is it too much to ask to allow me some sleep?" Brennan groaned.

She could feel Booth's grin, "See? Faye agrees with me."

"Faye just wants her food."

"Myow."

"Oh god," the ex thief groaned again.

"Come on, Bones. Join the land of the living."

"I prefer the land of the unconscious."

"But I'm here in the world of the living."

"I thought it was a land. And all the more reason for me to go back to sleep."

"That hurts."

"It should."

"Myow."

The foul smell of rotten fish, or whatever cat food consisted of, reached her nose. "Fine!" she exclaimed, sitting up, blankets wrapped around her like a shawl. Faye scrabbled for footing and looked at her indignantly. "I'm up!" she said to the cat. "You happy?"

"Very," Booth said.

She glared at him and he fired off a winning smile.

"Ugh," she muttered with disgust.

"Come on," he said, poking her arm again. "I'm going to make us a big plate of eggs."

"Who's to say I even have eggs?"

"I do because I bought you some."

She watched him, "Why are you dressed already?"

"Because I've been up for a while."

Her look turned suspicious, "Did you turn on the alarm?"

"I wouldn't do something like that."

"Sure you wouldn't."

He grinned and tossed her her robe. She wrapped it around herself and rose. He threw her a small bundle and she caught it, raising her brows. "Socks?"

"Wood floor in the kitchen," he explained.

"I thought you were making the eggs."

"Doesn't mean I don't want company."

Pursing her lips, she yanked them on and walked out, Faye trooping behind her. Once Booth reached the kitchen, Brennan draped her arms over one of her seats, her cat jumping onto the counter beside her. The agent reached into one of the cabinets near the floor and pulled out a large pan.

"How did you know where my pans were?" she asked.

"I was here when you were unpacking, Bones."

"Oh."

"And by the way, fastest unpacking job I've seen in a long time."

"I didn't have all that many things to unpack."

"Still, it's impressive."

"Then thank you, I guess."

He grinned at her, taking a glass bowl from another cabinet before opening her refrigerator door and pulling out a few things. She sank into the chair as she watched him, Faye migrating to her lap after a few minutes. Eventually, the eggs were poured into the pan and Booth began manipulating them with a spatula whilst manning the toaster, which was browning bread, and making sure everything he needed was in place. The smell of the toasted bread was just becoming intoxicating when he popped them out, quickly spread butter over them, and dumped the eggs into a large bowl.

He then sat beside her, grabbed a plate of shredded cheddar, and dumped generous handfuls into both of their plates. She snagged a piece of toast and bit down.

He forked a clump of eggs, "Man, Bones, so you are hungry."

"Well, considering I haven't eaten in about seventeen hours, that's to be expected."

"Jeez. I knew I should've made you eat."

"I really wasn't hungry. And besides, we had more fun without the food."

He grinned a half-smile but did not say anything more.

"You don't like this stuff," she said in response to Faye's quivering nose. "It's eggs."

"I do like eggs," Booth said. "Otherwise I wouldn't have made them."

Both Brennan and the cat looked at him.

"Oh, you were talking to her."

"He doesn't have cats," she explained to Faye.

Faye sneezed.

"She disapproves," she said to Booth.

"I'm sure she does."

Brennan grinned and forked some eggs for herself. She chewed them thoughtfully, remembering that Faye liked cheese. She reached onto the plate and took out a few pieces before lowering them to the cat's level. There was a pause before she started feeling a scratchy tongue moving over her fingers.

"So what's the plan today?" Booth asked. "Have any criminals to talk to?"

"Had a date with a murderer, actually," she replied.

He glared.

"If you can be glib, so can I."

"I'm sorry."

"It's fine," she said. "Actually, I left a contact with some cash so that he would tell me if the person I'm looking for shows up." That person being Sylvia Cole.

"How is he going to do that?"

"I'll stop by the Charade in a few days. I don't give out my cell number."

"Wow, a few days of freedom for Bones. What are you planning on doing?"

"Relaxing and possibly hanging around the lab." She finished her toast and reached for another. "Why? Did you have something in mind?"

"Not really." He paused. "It feels like we just had this conversation, doesn't it?"

"We did. Last night. Though it would seem that we have no more ideas than we did then."

"Well," he paused again. "What do you usually do when you're not working?"

She appreciated his use of the word 'working' rather than 'stealing,' "Read, listen to music, sometimes cook."

"Cooking could be a couples activity," he suggested.

"No; when I cook I tend to like to man everything at once."

"Isn't it more work that way?"

"Yes, but that way I don't have to be battling for counter-space." She remembered a few incidents with her mother in which one ended up bullying the other out of the kitchen. "And besides, if we cook it might as well be for meals anyway, not just to do it."

"Yeah. You're right..." his voice trailed off.

"What do you usually do?"

"Watch TV, drink a few beers, work out."

"How very male."

"Thanks a lot," he grimaced at her.

She flashed him a smile before consuming the last of her eggs. "It appears that although we chose basically opposite careers, we are both workaholics."

"Yeah."

"So what do two workaholics do when they get together?"

"I'm not sure." He thought for a while. "Watch a movie, maybe?"

"Yeah, we can do that."

He sat back in his chair, munching on his toast thoughtfully, "What kind of movies do you like?"

"Most of the ones that aren't modern."

"Why?"

She wrinkled her nose, "Too many special effects."

He laughed, "You sound like my grandmother."

She punched his shoulder and got up to head for the couch.

He followed.

"Well, what kind of movies do you prefer, Booth?" she asked, settled in a corner.

"I'm not all that picky," he sat beside her. "It just has to have believable characters."

"There are a lot of classic movies," she said.

"Yeah, but I'm not into all those historical ones."

"Hm," she thought. "A non-historical old movie with believable characters." She paused. "Like movies that are corny?"

"How corny?" he asked warily.

She smiled, "Just the right amount."

"That can't be good."

She laughed, "Oh come on. Have you ever seen _Love Story?_"

"I'm not sure."

Her smile widened. "Then that's what we're watching."

"Somehow, I think I'm going to regret this decision."

She ribbed him, "Lighten up, preppy."

His groan, though weak, sounded of acceptance.

--

"I can't believe you cried."

"I didn't cry. There was something in my eye."

"I don't believe you."

"Believe it."

"Then what's that streak down your cheek?"

"Water, Bones. Water from the sink."

Brennan looked at him suspiciously, "I don't remember it being there before."

"It was."

"Hm," she leaned closer to him, her hands sliding from the couch back to his chest as she did so. His breathing frequency increased. "Nope. Your corneas are red, your eyes are watery." She brought up a hand and pointed at him, "You, Seeley Booth, cried at _Love Story._"

He scoffed.

"See! You can't even deny it."

"Something in my throat."

She raised a brow.

"Okay, fine, I cried, you happy now?"

She smiled triumphantly, "Yes."

"Well, I'm not." Before she could react, he ensnared her lips with his mouth and she ended up flat on the couch.

"No fair," she said.

"Maybe not, but someone once told me life wasn't fair," he replied, eyes twinkling.

"Did that person happen to have been rudely awakened by a man and a cat?"

"It was the alarm clock, Bones, not me."

She eyed him suspiciously.

"Honest."

"Fine," she said, "Help me up."

"Not sure if I should do that. I am in a rare position of power."

"I have been a thief for over—" He stopped her with another kiss.

"So you've said."

Her breathing was becoming harder, "I'm simply reminding you that I could easily gain the upper-hand."

"Could you?"

"Oh yes," she grinned mischievously and used her legs to knock him off balance while wrapping her arms around his own to shift his center of gravity. He fell to the couch seat with a _thump. _"Like that."

"I'm impressed," he said from his new position under her hands and legs.

"As you should be. Not everybody gets to be flipped by these hands."

"What? You got someone to do it for you?"

"No. Normally I'd just knock them out with a bottle."

"Whiskey, right?"

"I prefer scotch."

He snorted.

"See, this is nice. I haven't had this much fun in a long time."

"What? Just watching a movie and playing around on a couch?"

"Yes," she collapsed her elbows and her wrists became the only things holding her up. "This."

"Then I'm glad I decided to come last night."

She nodded, "So am I." She paused, "However, I believe we still have the problem of trying to burn a few days."

"Hm," he slowly slid out from under her and leaned back on the couch arm. "Well, Thursdays are always slow, and I've caught up on my paperwork. I've already called to get a day off."

"Sick day?"

He gestured to his head, "Migraine."

"You know, someone who believed in psychology would question why you would have chosen that particular ailment over any other one."

"Well, you know, luckily you don't believe in psychology."

"Luckily, indeed."

Silence fell between them.

"Come on," Booth said finally. "We're two intelligent people. We've both dated before. Between the two of us we must be able to think of something."

"But what's wrong with just doing nothing? I'm always running around. For once I'd like to be home." She sat up, hands splayed on his chest. "You know, I probably haven't even spent a solid day's hours in this apartment yet, and I've been here for over a week."

"Yeah, that's pretty bad."

"And we could always go out to eat later. There is a wonderful jazz place around here."

"I'm starting to think that restaurant food is becoming all of our meals. And why a jazz place?"

"I love jazz," she said. "I always find a place with live music if I know I'll be staying somewhere for an extended amount of time. Haven't I taken you there?"

"Don't think so."

"Then tonight or tomorrow we'll go, unless you'd rather stay and cook."

"Why would I be the one cooking?"

She shrugged, "You're the one who commented on the fact that the majority of our food comes from waiting staff, though I would be willing to help with the cooking, of course." He seemed to think about it for a moment and she continued, "Face it, the fact that I have yet to even spend a full day in my own apartment and you are so caught up on paperwork it's perfectly okay for you to just take a sick day suggests we are both work-oriented, and that means everything else—including our own eating and sleeping patterns—are compromised to accommodate our work habit. Now, even though we're both productive in our own rights, that means that we are essentially living off of food prepared by someone else, and sleeping in areas that were never originally intended for it. I've accepted that."

"So have I," he said after he had digested what she had said.

"And if you do want to stay here and eat something we prepared ourselves, then I would be perfectly willing to do that. However, even in light of that statement, I still would like to listen to some sax music and maybe even dance a little."

"Then we'll do that."

She smiled, "And until then?"

"We have fun, Temperance, we have fun."

And they did.

--

Many hours later, Brennan had seated herself in a far corner of the Grey Mare, her legs crossed and eyes focused on a sax player. The brass instrument shined dully from a single red light behind it, the man playing reduced to a hardly illuminated shadow. Its notes crooned to her, calling her back to memories of the Charade when another sax player used to play before he was shot by a rampaging arms dealer. He had been forty-two, and the corner is still empty.

She took a sip of wine, and her eyes caught on a figure moving toward her.

"Booth," she said and then smiled, "You look great in a tux."

He did. It was fitted well and hugged his every curve.

"I'm glad I sent you back to change."

He sat across from her, "You don't look half-bad yourself, Bones." His own grin was wide.

Her smile matched his for length before splitting into a soft laugh, "Turns out there were a few dresses in my closet after all."

"Still, you look very nice."

"Thank you." The dress was black, but long, reaching down to her ankles. The neck was a fairly deep V, and she compensated for that with a large silver necklace, its pendant a rose. She had applied light make-up, enough to make her look nice without making her feel fussy. Likely, she thought, the two of them looked like a normal couple out for a nice meal and beautiful music.

"Right now it's just the sax player, but within a half an hour a jazz band is going to play, him included," she explained as a waiter handed them both a menu.

"So that's why there all those instruments," he said, pointing.

"Yes. I was afraid we had missed them when I first walked in, but I asked and they told me what was going on."

"Good for you, Bones. A restaurant and live music."

"Seems like a good couple's activity doesn't it, now that I think about it." She thought to herself for a moment, "I guess that's why whenever I go to these sorts of places waiters ask if it's just me."

"Well, now it's not just you," he smiled at her again before flipping his menu open. "So is the food here good?"

"Don't know about the meats, but the tomato and alfredo sauces are quite good."

"You're impressed by tomato sauce?"

She shrugged, "You'd be surprised at the range of flavors. This particular one has fresh garlic, onion, and a few mushrooms, and there isn't too much tomato paste. Nor is it over-salted."

"See, other people rave about the steaks, or the fish, or the fresh baked bread, but you talk about tomato sauce."

"Well, the bread here is also quite good, and warm, which is more than can be said for a lot of restaurants, and they bring oil. And since I'm vegetarian, meats don't really mean anything to me."

He shook his head, "I was just teasing, Bones."

"I see," she said, skimming through the menu and quickly narrowing her choices down. "I will have the ravioli with alfredo sauce," she announced and set it down.

Booth glanced over at her with amusement before returning his attention to the menu. After a few long minutes, a waiter appeared and Brennan told him what she wanted. Booth handed over his menu when she had finished and ordered a steak.

"You know," she said as the waiter disappeared, "Considering the amounts of food prepared out of home we've been consuming, I'm not so sure a steak is the best idea."

"And I guess alfredo sauce is just loaded with vitamins?"

She ignored that, "I just think you should consider cutting down on the amount of red meat in your diet. It's nutritional value is low compared to some other meats."

"Look, you just keep your nose in your rabbit food, and I'll keep mine in my own."

"It's a little difficult if you are the one providing my 'rabbit food' the majority of the time. " He said nothing. "I'm not trying to be picky or anything, just looking out for your health."

"I'm fine, Bones. You don't have to worry about me. I can take care of myself."

"I remember someone else who said something similar but was not left alone." She grinned at him, showing her teeth.

Booth winced, "I'm thinking this is a bad road to walk down. Let's change the subject, shall we?"

"To what?"

He paused. "Not sure. You think of something."

"Well, you suggested to watch a movie, I suggested the movie, and I suggested the restaurant. I believe it's your turn to take the first step."

He sat back, considering, but was saved by the arrival of the bread. "Eating. That's my suggestion."

She snorted, but reached for the bread basket. Conversation dwindled until she spoke again, which coincided with the moment that the last piece of bread had been eaten. "Don't you think it's rather odd we can't find anything to talk about?"

Booth paused again and leaned forward, swallowing. "Not really."

"Why?"

"Well, think about it, Bones. You're a crook and I'm a cop, which of course means that automatically almost anything that isn't skim-the-surface as far as work is concerned is off-limits. And I know the stuff I could add to the skim-the-surface part of that segment would be uninteresting, and anything you could add would be heavily censored.

"We do have friends to talk about, but we know the same people and probably saw them at the same time on any given day. And my friends outside of work are spaced apart, and we mostly just do sports nights."

"And if my friends met your friends there would be trouble."

"Exactly," he nodded. "And you said it yourself, Bones. We're workaholics, which means that a big part of our lives is working." He moved his fingers in a circle in an encompassing gesture. "And if we can't talk about work, that doesn't leave a whole lot left."

"That makes sense."

Salads were set between the two of them.

"But, wait," Brennan said, forking a leaf of salad. "You've dated before, haven't you?"

"Yeah. And you have too?"

"Of course."

"Well, it's different with us. We're alike, but not, you know?"

"Not really."

"We may both love to work, but your heart lies with sciences and baddies, and mine is with avoiding scientists and catching baddies."

"So how do we remedy such a situation?"

"Relationships are built on more than just conversation. We have an understanding, and we've gone far beyond where two normal dating people would be."

Her eyebrows crinkled and she swallowed a croûton, "What do you mean?"

"Think about it. Between the gunfire and the discovery of a massive FBI conspiracy, and you and me right in the middle of it, a lot happened. If we can survive that kind of jolt, then maybe there's something here that doesn't need obvious compatibility."

"Then what does it need?"

"Love and nurturing."

"I'm not sure those are my strong points."

"Well, you'll learn."

A sound drew her attention, and she looked to her right. "Our music is starting."

Booth smiled, "Care to go dancing, Bones?"

She smiled back, "Please."


	7. The Heist and Epilogue

_Chapter Seven_

The next day was spent much like the first, only lunch was held at the Jeffersonian instead of Brennan's bed, and Brennan herself had hung aimlessly around the lab until Angela told her that bone storage was unlocked and she might possibly want to look around a little. Which was what she did.

Around six, while driving back to her apartment, she had decided to stop by the Charade. Tom told her that Bishop and Scar were ready, and that her quarry, Sylvia Cole, would be stopping by the next day. Afterward, she had driven to the Bank, told Sam her plan, and proceeded home to cook a large salad and a rice dish she had learned from her mother, and Booth and her had eaten while making jokes about paperwork and squints.

When the following day rolled around, Brennan and Booth spent the day shopping, watching movies, and eating. They separated around ten, and Booth had said that he would stop by the next morning to check up on her, and if she wasn't there he would be storming the Bank and the Charade.

She had told him not to worry. He had kissed her and said good-bye.

Now she walked to the Charade, her hands in her pockets as she strolled inside the old wooden door. Tom nodded at her, and she nodded back, ignoring the smoke trailing from his fingers and nostrils.

"So you did decide to come after all," a silky voice said, its owner melting from the back. "I'm glad."

She nodded.

"So what's the plan?"

"It's your suicide mission, Paul."

"And you don't work partnerships unless you get to make the decisions."

She glanced at Scar, who had walked in behind Bishop. "Have you decided on a place?"

"The old thrift store," he replied.

"Not much money there."

"To catch a big fish you start with small bait," his voice sounded like a sneer, even though his lips were even.

"Fine." She turned and began walking away. "Meet me there." Neither replied, and she left.

The drive over was quiet, the late hour having ensured that the streets were fairly empty. She spent the time thinking about what was about to go down, and what could go wrong with her plan. There were a lot of people involved, more people than she was comfortable dealing with. She wasn't even sure what sort of retribution would be held, and who would carry it out. She supposed it didn't matter really. This was the criminal world after all.

Her car stopped with a hum, and she quickly turned off the engine and removed the keys, tucking them inside her coat as she opened the door. It was a fairly long walk to the thrift shop, and as she walked she recalled the blueprints Sam had shown her. She carefully avoided places where cameras could spot her, staying in their blind spots. She didn't know who was manning the security at this hour, but she was sure being spotted too early would cause problems.

The shop itself was not really a shop at all. It functioned as one, even had legitimate non-criminal customers, but it was the downstairs that contained its real purpose. It held money. A lot of it. Compared to some of the other branches, it was small, but tens of thousands of dollars wasn't exactly inconsequential. Because of the amount of cash stored here, there was a separate building which connected to it from underground. Most people knew about it, but nobody really cared about it because who would raid a place like that? Now it had importance.

Bishop and Scar, as requested, were there, their forms blending with the building they stood before.

"Follow me," she said.

They nodded but said nothing.

The building was a shanty. No one lived there and no one used it. The windows were boarded up, although some of them had gaps to appear more natural. On the other side of the wood covering was bullet-proof glass. The doors, although shabby in appearance, were secured by heavy-duty locks. However, Brennan was prepared for this, and from the folds of her coat she produced a key.

"Where did you get that?" Scar growled.

"A little birdie," she replied shortly and stepped through the newly unlocked door.

He said nothing further.

The inside of it was unkempt, dusty and smelling vaguely of mildew. There were a few inky blobs which she took to be boxes and one large one which she assumed to be the staircase. When her eyes adjusted, she mentally brought up the floor plan and found the trapdoor leading to the thrift shop. Lifting it, she allowed her company to step through first before stepping down herself.

"Damn, it's dark," a voice complained.

"What did you expect? Neon lighting and a GPS?" a second replied.

"Shut up," Brennan said impatiently.

They did.

She kept a hand on the wall, allowing it to guide her. It was a straight shot through, no curves or twists. Their arrival at the stairs was announced by an expletive from Bishop, who was quickly hushed by Scar, and they walked up in silence. At the top, Brennan looked around.

They were in a small room with barely enough space for the three of them, the light suggestion of a door frame on her right. Reaching for it, she felt for a knob, turned it, and stepped through.

"Look around," Brennan said, wanting to rid herself of them for a while. "When you find the door with two locks, find me."

One of the shadows separated from her side, and she walked away from the other. Her hand ran along the wall again, and once again she wondered vaguely if they would survive the night.

She felt something brush over her hair and slip over her throat before it tightened and she was forced back against the body of whoever was holding the chord, gasping.

"Listen, you little bitch," the voice of Scar growled. "If you're playing us, you'll never see the light of day again."

She could feel his breath on her neck, the pressure of his chest against her spine as her lungs began to beg for air, the chord cutting painfully into her neck.

"I'm going to knock out security, and if something isn't right, I'll make damn sure this kills you."

The chord loosened and she sucked in air as it was removed and he walked away. She glared at his form until he disappeared, her hand caressing the now tender spot around her throat. After another shaky inhalation, she began walking again. She jumped as a hand brushed her shoulder, her fingers curling automatically into a defensive position. "Found it," Bishop said and his inky form indicated a place to her right.

She nodded and they walked to it.

The key to the door in front was inserted in the first lock, and for the second she reached into her pocket and withdrew another key.

"Where are you getting all these keys, Joy?" Bishop asked.

"I stole them," she replied simply. In fact, she had all of the keys to all of the nearby Bank locations, as well as their blueprints. But he didn't know that.

Once the door was unlocked, they stepped inside.

Rows of cabinets met their eyes, and Brennan casually strolled down the aisles until she reached one that appealed to her. A third key appeared from her pocket, and she used all three to unlock it. Inside were neat rows of cardboard holders, and when she reached inside she felt paper.

"Jackpot," she said, removing a bill.

Bishop reached in and removed a handful of his own, stuffing it in a pocket and dropping his bag to the ground.

"Are you going to help?" he asked after a few minutes of siphoning money alone.

"I told you I'm not in this for profit."

"You're not even going to take a little?" his voice sounded suspicious.

"I don't remember saying that."

"Then what is your plan?"

"I'll wait until you're done and skim a little off the surface."

"You're taking some of my money?"

"Call it a finger's fee."

He went silent.

Scar appeared moments later, and he walked beside her.

"Open this one," he said. She complied after giving him a stony glare, which he ignored before beginning to take cash by the fistfuls.

Brennan, after a moment of watching them, reached into her coat and removed the bag hanging from her shoulder. She then bent and began raiding Bishop's duffel to his silent protestation. She ignored him.

Once she had taken as much as she wanted, she walked over to Scar. "How was security?"

"Easy."

She didn't have any desire to know what that meant, so she didn't ask. Instead, she peaked at her clock. 2:58. Few more minutes to go.

"Expecting someone, Joy?" Scar's voice broke into her thoughts.

"New security detail comes in around four. Making sure we had enough time."

"I'm starting to wonder how you know all of these things about a location you only just learned about tonight."

"I know about all of the Bank branches in the area. What did you think I would do with two free days?"

"Leave her alone," Bishop growled, and for the first time he sounded genuinely annoyed at his partner. "She got us in. She got us the cash. Leave it at that."

Scar muttered something, but silenced.

"I need some cleaner air," Brennan said, moving to step out while ignoring Scar's gaze. "Take what you like and tell me when you're done."

There were nods and then the beginnings of whispered conversation as she left.

Her stomach flipped and bile began rising in her throat as she saw several figures withdraw from the trapdoor she had entered from earlier. She walked to them, making sure that if either Scar or Bishop looked outside the room they wouldn't see her or her new company.

"Joy," a voice said, so quiet that had she been a few inches further away she wouldn't have heard it at all.

She nodded.

Samantha Powell withdrew something small and hard-looking from her pocket. "I know your aversion to violence, but there's no telling what could go down here."

She nodded again.

"Jus' make sure to keep outta the way," another voice said and she stifled a gasp.

"You're the old drunk," she said, forgetting her tact.

"Yes'm."

"But why?"

"Told ya, miss, I'm t'enemy o' your enemy."

She wanted to ask more, but she knew this was neither the time nor the place. "Who're you?" she asked instead, turning to the third unidentified figure.

"Sylvia Cole."

"Killer of Johnathon Reed?"

"You can think of me that way."

"And you also run this Bank center?"

"Yes."

"Let's get moving," Sam said the way she always used to.

Nods were exchanged and they exited, Brennan hanging behind.

"So what's all this?" the leader of the Bank said casually, walking into the room with Bishop, Scar, and the cash, flipping on the main light at the same moment. "A raid?"

"On my building?" Cole asked, her voice like steel.

"Not t'nicest thing to do, hm?" the old drunk said, who was not drunk at all.

"You," Scar said, staring at Brennan.

"Me," Sam said, stepping in front of her. "You see, it's my business if anyone does anything with the Bank. If someone plugs a leak without my knowledge," she shot a look at Cole. "And if someone starts stealing my cash."

A string of expletives poured from the shabby thief's mouth while Bishop stood beside him, mute.

"You knew the risk, and you did it anyway," Sam continued, her .22 rising from her pocket. "So stand still."

"To be executed here or some back alley?" Scar asked. "I don't think so." He raised a gun of his own, which was matched by Cole and the drunk.

"Don't tempt me now," Cole said.

"To be shot like a dog in a cage is not my style," Scar replied.

Brennan's own .38 rose, the muzzle aimed above his left shoulder. "Don't do it, Scar."

"You brought this whole thing down on our heads."

"How could you possibly think I would risk my life and career for chump change? Money's no good to dead men."

"That's what they say, isn't it?" his finger slipped to the trigger.

"One last chance," Sam said.

"I ran out of those a long time ago," the finger tightened.

Brennan lowered her gun and fired.

Scar fell, a wound of red appearing in his thigh. He fell heavily.

"Joy," Sam breathed.

"Maybe one day I'll be shot down, but not by him," the ex thief replied, leaning against the door-frame. "You planning on trying anything?" she asked Bishop.

"No," he shook his head, his eyes glazing over. "It's over."

Cole nodded and walked over to him, removing a chord from her pocket and tying the fence's wrists together while the drunk did the same for Scar.

"On your feet," he barked, yanking the moaning thief up. "Walk."

He did, slowly, his thigh wound dripping red splotches onto the floor. He glared at Brennan as he was marched past, muttering one last curse to her name. Bishop followed in heavy silence, Cole's hands on his shoulder and wrists.

"Think we should get a cup of coffee?" Sam asked quietly as Brennan stared off into space.

"Tomorrow," the ex thief said. "Tomorrow we will have coffee."

She nodded and together they walked away.

--

When Brennan got home that night, she went to bed immediately and, without even changing clothes, fell asleep. She slept twelve hours.

At four o'clock, she was awakened by the sound of frenzied banging on her door, and she got up and padded to it with a tired gait. When she opened it, Booth was standing there and his panic seemed to recover. He offered to make her breakfast; she rose a brow and told him it was almost dinnertime. He shrugged and said it could be a binner sort of thing. She asked why it couldn't be deakfast. He had told her to never say that word again. She didn't.

After their eggs and fake meat for her and eggs and bacon for him, they had loafed on the couch and neither talked about what had happened last night. They joked and kissed but staid on the couch. At ten she told him she needed to go, and he didn't ask where but told her he would stay at her apartment until she came back. She nodded, dressed, and left him.

Three people met her at the Charade, at a back table near the empty corner where the sax musician used to play. She sat on the booth—Sam on her left, Cole on her right, and the drunk across from her.

She spoke first, "What's your name?"

The drunk said, "Anthony Burns."

"I'd like to commend you for your acting skills."

He smiled thinly, "I've been told I'm the Dudley Moore of drunkenness."

"I will give you that."

He nodded.

"So, tell me what happened."

Sam and Burns exchanged a look.

Sam started, "A few months ago I noticed that the money going to the Charade seemed to be disappearing in strange ways. Maybe it would be exchanged but the actual amounts of cash would be unequal. Somebody would take out five dollars and get ten quid. The amounts were so small no one noticed, but after a while it was becoming apparent that the money was going elsewhere."

"Where was it going?"

Cole spoke, "I discovered Reed screwing around with the cash a few days ago. I figured he had to be involved in some way."

"So you capped him."

She shrugged.

Sam went on, "I hired Cole here to figure out what was going on and she found Reed." She lifted a cigarette from her pocket and stuck it in her mouth, offering it to the rest of the table. Cole took one, and Sam lit them both up, exhaling the smoke out of the side of her mouth. "But when you started poking around, I realized there must be something more."

"Why?"

"Because you don't get suspicious unless you think you're on to something. And a dead investment banker with connections to the Bank so close to the money disappearances couldn't be coincidental."

"But Evans was killed weeks before Reed."

"Like I said, we knew about the stolen money. We just didn't know who was doing it."

"Then who killed him?"

Burns spoke, "Bishop, Scar, and Evans 'ad formed their own money launderin' 'peration with Reed as their primary supplier. Scar ran the 'ole thing, and Bishop an' Evans were convinced they'd see a piece o' t'pie. But 'parently Evans figured he'd been manipulated and decided t'rat to an AUSA."

"Without realizing how much money was actually being made." She sighed. "The blind rooster's crow."

Sam nodded.

"Who killed him?"

"Scar."

She nodded, but didn't ask what had happened to Scar and Bishop. She knew without having to. "So what happens now?" she asked.

"We go back to our lives," Cole said.

"I assume the Bank is operating normally again?"

Sam nodded again.

She sighed and sat back, breathing in the smell of cigarette smoke and feeling as if she had never promised herself that she had switched sides.

"It's snowing," Burns noted, getting up, his hands around a beaten box.

"What's that?" Sam asked.

"Sax. Don't know 'bout you but I missed it."

"Getting paid for the gig?" Cole asked.

"Nah. This is a one-time deal."

Sam raised a glass of amber liquid. "To the changing of the guard."

Solemnly, they clicked glasses and drank. Brennan hissed as the alcohol slid down her throat, not used to it. Burns left the for the empty platform, removing his sax with slow care. It was old and worn, and the few lights in the room only made it shine dully instead of brightly, his skin turned a pale blue.

Slowly, the notes of the sax came to life, oozing over the occupants of the old bar and silencing them. Brennan got up mid-way through it and walked to the door, her hands in her pockets.

"Ever going to come back, Joy?" Sam called.

"Maybe someday," she said and, turning, walked outside, the notes of the old sax following her out.

--

Brennan's door opened soundlessly, the jingling of her keys the only apparent indicator of her presence. On the other side she could hear the soft sounds of a television and, after a moment, a low laugh. As she entered Faye twisted a figure-eight around her legs, and she reached down to pick her up before walking into the main living area, pulling off her scarf and throwing her coat over a chair in a fluid one-handed motion.

Booth looked up as she dropped onto the couch next to him, pulling her close with his left hand as Faye wiggled free.

"What are you watching?" she asked, ignoring the cat as she hopped down.

"Tonight Show," he said, muting it.

"Leno?" she watched the gray-haired man as he paced around a wooden stage, saying something, and the camera panned to a stage where a band was beginning to perform. "You watch the whole show?"

He shrugged. "Why not?"

She did a shoulder roll of her own.

There was silence as a man with dreadlocks whipped his head back and forth, the drummer behind him moving with such jerkiness she was half-convinced he was seizing.

"Aren't you going to ask what happened?" she asked after a moment.

"I was just going to wait for you to tell me."

She snorted and relayed her information to him.

"What happened to Scar and Bishop?" he asked when she had finished.

She paused, "They're...dead."

He nodded but said nothing.

"I'm not sure to what extent our relationship extends, but if they do turn up at the lab, their deaths are going to point to me."

His eyes slid to hers and it seemed to take him a while to speak. Finally, "Did you kill them, Temperance?"

"No."

"Who did?"

"Former business associates."

"Of Bishop and Scar, or you?"

"Both."

He sighed.

She watched him, "Are we...okay?"

Booth looked at her again, "What do you mean?"

"The last time we worked together, my old associates never showed up, but now you've got some idea of what I used to be involved in. What I am still involved in, in some cases." She inhaled, "It doesn't seem fair to...to ask you to overlook murders and thefts simply because of me."

He was quiet again, seemingly going over what she had said, and by the time he finally spoke the gold background of _Late Night with Conan O'Brien_ was flashing on screen, "You're right, but you're also wrong. Cases like Evans and Reed—they would've been cold cases anyway. Reed probably would've been chalked to a gang execution, Evans would have just remained a mystery. And considering the conspiracy involved, any investigator who had gotten enough information to actually figure out why they were killed would probably end up dead himself.

"And even knowing the risk to yourself, you went in and solved a case without anything to gain." He inhaled, "I have faith in you, Bones. I wouldn't protect you if I thought you were a blind thief and a murderer. You protected me, and you protected your old business partners."

"Thank you," she said quietly.

"Don't thank me, Bones. Like you would say, I'm just telling the truth."

She smiled.

"But," his eyes were on her again, "I wish you wouldn't make me worry so much."

"I made you worry?"

"Yes." He leaned forward and pressed his lips to her own. Her molars separated and his tongue teased the inside of her mouth before they slowly broke apart. "And I don't want to worry," his voice was throaty.

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay." He shifted, his eyes on the screen again, and she tucked her arms around his waist, the crown of her head coming to rest under his jaw. "Just don't do it again."

She snorted, "I don't think I can guarantee that."

"Then can you at least try?"

She closed her eyes, breathing in his cologne, which was mixed with the sweet scent of his shampoo and the dryness of his detergent. "Yes. I can try."

His fingers wrapped around her hand, "Good. Now," his free hand reached for the remote, "Let's watch some TV, huh, Bones?"

She grinned, "Sure."

Conan was un-muted, his punchline was delivered, and the two unlikely partners spent the rest of the night in peace.


End file.
